The Language of the Blood
by katiebug5
Summary: We know about Bella's past in Arizona with her mother... we know about Edward and his influenza, Emmett and his bear, Alice and her asylum, Carlisle and his, um, paintings. But what about Esme? How can we know so much and yet so little? This is her story.
1. Anxiety

**The Language of the Blood**

_"Love takes us in strange ways. It's the language of the blood. It's neither cold nor indifferent. It's either agony or ecstasy – sometimes both at once." – The Agony and the Ecstasy_

**1. Anxiety**

"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by any other, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life—"

"Esme!"

I looked up from my book, startled slightly. It seemed as though I had only just sat down with my book a minute ago; was it already suppertime? Just how long had I spent staring at the cover of David Copperfield and flipping through its pages, relishing the unique scent of a new book? I had saved up for this book for months, secretly doing small chores for the neighboring farms – painting fences; feeding horses and cows; climbing into foul-smelling chicken coups, holding my breath and dodging territorial roosters to collect eggs – saving each penny until finally I had enough.

I rolled over onto my back and climbed out of bed, placing the book down carefully. I pranced to the top of the stairs and called, "Yes?"

A deeper voice answered sternly.

"Esme Anne Platt, you come when you're called, do not holler for all the neighbors to hear!"

I bit my lip. I hadn't known my father was home yet.

I descended the staircase, but not before dashing back around the corner to my bedroom and hiding my book under my mattress. My parents didn't approve of my reading novels. My mother said they were improper for a woman of good breeding and my father said they were responsible for the libertinism in the world today. No use provoking them, I supposed. I stepped back and surveyed the lopsided corner of my bed critically. A little obvious, yes, but it would have to do for now.

I joined my parents in the kitchen. I had always loved our kitchen. It was very cozy, undoubtedly the most homey room in the farmhouse, but it wasn't so small that it seemed to suffocate you, as I'd found the kitchens of the other farms to do. It was a soft yellow, and there was a wooden stool in the corner by the stove that I used to sit on every afternoon after school, shelling peas or watching my mother prepare supper, waiting for my father to return home from work. The door into the dining room was right across from the staircase of which I now reached the bottom.

I found my mother at the stove, removing her delicious, golden-brown cornbread from the oven, and my father watched her work, enjoying the scent as much as I.

"Yes?" I repeated, softly this time.

My father's brow creased when he saw me standing there. "Esme, how many times must I tell you not to use that staircase? Use the main staircase – the proper one. That's the servants' staircase, child. Are you a servant?"

I lowered my gaze. "No, sir." When my father asked a question, however rhetorical, he expected an answer. Nevermind that we had no servants, and that it may have been more correct of him to say that it used to be a servants' staircase years before we bought the house; to my father, once a servants' staircase, always a servants' staircase.

My mother straightened up, closing the oven door, and gave me a sympathetic smile.

"Esme, dear," she said, "go wash up and get dressed for supper. The Evensons are calling, so why don't you wear that white dress with the green sash, and do try to do something with your hair – it's all tangled."

"Her hair is fine, Miriam. Just make sure you wash your face, Esme. The last time we had guests, you had filth all along your hairline; it was almost as though you had spent the afternoon in a stable. You haven't been playing in your uncle's stable, again, have you, Esme?"

I was fairly certain that my heart had momentarily frozen, mid-beat. "No, Father," I answered. It wasn't necessarily a lie; I certainly hadn't been playing in my uncle's stable that afternoon.

"Good. You are simply too old for that kind of behavior." I turned to go.

"Esme!" My father barked.

Forget about merely stopping; this time my heart plummeted to the bottom of my torso, leaving a hole in my stomach. I pivoted slowly on my heel, desperately trying not to look guilty. "Aren't you forgetting something?" He spread his arms wide, expectant. Relief flooded my entire system and I tried to let the breath I'd been holding out slowly.

I quickly closed the distance between us and put my arms around his neck, kissing his whiskery cheek. My father smiled indulgently at me and then spun me around 180-degrees, sending me off with a light pat on my backside, just like he'd done since I was seven.

My mother called after me as I tried to make good my escape. "Oh, and Esme, darling? Try to start getting more sun – you're whiter than a sheet." I let out an involuntary giggle of terror as I scampered towards the stairs.

"The other stairs, Esme." I skidded to a halt and virtually raced for the kitchen/dining room swinging door.

Once I made it through the door, I broke into a run, dodging around our scrubbed wooden table, which was covered in a white tablecloth for the occasion, around the corner, and up the spiral staircase to my room, almost slamming the door behind me. I briefly leaned against the door, slightly winded.

I darted for my bed, retrieving David Copperfield and hugging it to my chest for a moment. Then, I hit it up under my bed, perched on the bed frame. The dust ruffle would be more than sufficient to conceal it from sight. I sank onto the quilt and leaned back.

It was then that I realized that I felt a disproportionate amount of relief from this simple act to my actual situation. Had my parents discovered the book, I would certainly have been punished, which would have been bad, and the book would have been confiscated, which would have been worse. Yet I had been so jumpy in the kitchen, so discomfited. It was a feeling reminiscent of the time I had gone flying off of a galloping horse. A feeling of fear. Fear for my safety. I went over our conversation in my head, and when I got to the part when my mother told me to dress for supper, my stomach lurched unpleasantly. Why should I be nervous about dressing for supper? It was completely absurd, laughable, even.

The clock struck six o'clock downstairs, breaking into my reverie. I blinked, shook my head, and then stood. I crossed to my wardrobe next to the door and selected the simple white garment my mother had suggested. I headed for the washroom to prepare to greet our guests.

But I just couldn't shake the feeling of unease.

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**Author's Note: **So, what did you think? Like it? Hate it? Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, but this is my first story, so be gentle, please. ::cringes::


	2. The Evensons

**Author's Note: **Thanks to miss.dramatikkkk, Seul Lune, and Catisrad for reviewing! I just realized that I accidentally had anonymous reviews disabled, so I fixed that; sorry about that, guys. :-) Also: I forgot to put in a disclaimer in the first chapter, so here goes ::clears throat importantly::

Twilight, Esme Platt, and Charles Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer and her publishers. Mr. and Mrs. Platt, Margaret Platt, and Hester and William Evenson all belong to me, until such a time as Stephenie lays claim to them, upon which I will bow at her feet and probably cry. David Copperfield belongs to Charles Dickens.

Now, onto Chapter Two!

**2. The Evensons**

Just as I was leaving the washroom, I heard the doorbell. I walked down the corridor and reached the staircase in time to see my mother answer the door I heard a cacophony of greetings, mostly coming from my mother and Mrs. Evenson.

"Good evening!"

"Good evening, Miriam, darling! How marvelous to see you again!"

"Do come in, the night air must be chilling you to the bone!"

"Why, thank you!"

Laughter.

I hurried down the rest of the steps so I could take their coats from them. Amidst the bustle of the Evensons' entrance, Mrs. Evenson spotted me.

"Ah, Esme, darling! How _are_ you?"

My father and Mr. Evenson were old friends, and I knew I had to be at my most gracious. I did find it aggravating, however, that even though I was already sixteen years old, Mrs. Evenson seemed to be under the impression that I was still a toddler. More specifically, as though I were a precocious little girl who had dressed up in her mother's clothes and was holding a tea party. No doubt she would laugh at me at least three times before she even properly got through the door. Nevertheless, I was polite. "Very well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Haha! Oh, isn't she just _darling!_ I'm fine, sweetie, just fine!"

There she goes. I almost expected her to bend down and pinch my cheeks. "May I take your coats?" I asked, ignoring her chuckles.

"Oh! Well, aren't you just the most helpful cherub? William, look at this: she wants to take our coats!"

"Well, then, for heaven's sake, give her your coat, Hester. Esme, how are you?" I had always liked Mr. Evenson. He was very practical, like my father, but he wasn't as serious. Mr. and Mrs. Evenson both slipped out of their coats and handed them to me, and then Mrs. Evenson turned slightly and spoke over her shoulder.

"Charles, give Esme here your coat; she wants to be the one to hang them up."

The Evenson's only son, Charles, stepped forward between his parents and handed me his coat, which he had already removed. His dark eyes flashed down to meet mine. Immediately, I felt my stomach give a violent twist, and I had the sudden fear that I was going to be sick. That would be just what I would need to forever cement my puerility in Mrs. Evenson's mind – to vomit on her shoes. Margaret, my second cousin and best friend, once told me that if you hold your breath you won't be sick… or did she say keep breathing? I was still struggling to remember the conversation when I came to my senses and realized that I had been standing there, staring at Charles and his coat for at least fifteen seconds. I blinked, forced a smile, and added his coat to the pile draped across my left arm.

"Please excuse me," I whispered, and headed off in the direction of my parents' bedroom.

Once inside, I carefully spread the coats out on the bed, trying to slow my heartbeat. What was it about Charles that had triggered such a response? Granted, we weren't the best of friends; in fact, I hardly knew him, but I certainly didn't dislike him. I was at a complete loss, but at least the feeling of nausea had passed. I took a deep, calming breath and went to rejoin the throng.

However, when I returned to the hallway, it was deserted, except for my mother. She looked beautiful, but that was not unusual. My mother was quite beautiful, and always had been, or so I've been told. But she looked exceptionally stunning tonight, with her forest green dress and her hair done up. I hoped that one day I would look like her. After all, I did take after her looks more than those of my father. Mother and I had the same dark gray eyes and the same hair color: a light tawny. My father fondly referred to us as his honey and his caramel. At least, he used to. Recently, I had noticed that my father had been much sterner with me than he usually was. He had used to chuckle throatily whenever I did something childish, like riding my uncle's horse bareback, jumping from the willow into the pond in the backyard, or coming home completely filthy after getting into a mud fight with Margaret. Lately, however, he had taken to scolding me, telling me to act my age. I still loved my father desperately, of course, but I sensed a rift developing between us, and I was very afraid of it.

My mother smiled at me. "Is there something on your mind, Esme?"

There were a lot of things on my mind: does my father hate me? Why do I get sick when I look at one of our dinner guests? What happens to David Copperfield after he is born on a Friday? Do you hold your breath or not when you want to keep from throwing up? But none of them was exactly passing conversation as my mother and I strolled our way into the dining room, so I just smiled and shook my head.

She stroked my cheek lovingly and said, "You look very pretty tonight, Esme," then she turned and headed for the dining room.

The light from the hallway ricocheted off one of the windows, turning it into a mirror. In a brief moment of vanity, I eagerly looked into it, hoping to see my mother smiling back at me. I thought perhaps I looked like her a little… _just around my mouth.…_ My eyes widened. Did we have the same bone structure? … _Maybe if my cheeks were a little rosier…._ I pinched at my cheeks, and then turned on my heel and headed for the dining room, hoping to follow after my mother in more ways than one.

* * *

I sighed and sank down in between my warm covers. It had been a long evening. I had tried to be as invisible as possible, which wasn't easy considering that Mrs. Evenson had insisted on trying to draw me into conversation. I was a very shy person, except when I was around Margaret, when I became someone entirely different. I was outgoing and outspoken, even funny at times. I could express myself sarcastically and sardonically, as I sometimes felt the need to do when I was frustrated, and Margaret could always make me laugh with her raucous imitations of whomever I was frustrated with. Her inborn knowledge of human nature was such that, even if she had never met someone before, she could accurately imitate aspects of their personality perfectly. I had suffered through the limelight as best I could, holding onto the thought that, by this time tomorrow, Margaret and I would be laughing at everything I was currently enduring. 

In spite of the comforting knowledge that soon the evening would be a memory tainted with the colors that Margaret would surely add to it, I was still discomfited. I had not been imagining it: Charles had been the reason for my feelings of unease all evening. At random moments throughout supper, I would glance up and find him looking at me. Always, he would drop my glance immediately, without acknowledging the fact that he had been caught staring, except for once, when he and his parents were leaving.

I had gone to retrieve their coats from my parents' bedroom, hoping I was imagining the prickly feeling of being watched, but as soon as I had rounded the corner on my return to the hall, I saw him looking at me. His eyes had followed me the whole way to his mother's side, whereupon I handed her coat to her. She had taken her coat and her husband's with, "Oh! You're such a doll!" When I handed Charles his coat, his eyes had bored into mine, and I had met his gaze once more. This time, he had held my eyes, and when I tried smiling weakly at him, the strangest look had come into his eyes. He had looked almost… hungry. I wondered if he had gotten enough to eat, but I didn't have the courage to ask. I had felt overpowered, and I was forced to break eye contact. A moment later, when I glanced up from under my lashes, he had a look of triumph about him, and I felt a shiver run through me.

I shivered involuntarily once more, even though the night was warm and I was nestled comfortably in my sheets. I rolled over restlessly, trying to induce sleep by closing my eyes and pretending to be tired.

Why _me?_ Why was he staring at _me?_ He'd never taken an interest in me before. And I _wasn't_ imagining it.

I sighed and opened my eyes, staring at my moonlit wall. I was in for a long night.

**Another Author's Note: **Well, what did you think? I will do my best to respond to every review I receive, unless I forget (ask anyone: I have the memory of a goldfish).


	3. The Willow

**Author's Note: **Thanks to **Isabel Hale, twilightprincess2010, NellieGURL, Seul Lune, cakeaddict61, and miss.dramatikkkk** for reviewing! Seriously, you guys are the best. You all made my day my year with your positive words and happy thoughts! I hope you guys like this chapter!

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt, and Charles Evenson are all the property of the wonderful Stephenie Meyer. Margaret Platt belongs to me at the moment (and, let me tell you, she is a handful!). The lines, "that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek" and "shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and temperate" belong to a fella I know named William Shakespeare. They are from "Romeo and Juliet" and "Sonnet XVIII," respectively. You should really check out his work; it's not bad at all!

**3. The Willow**

"So, did he _say_ anything?"

"No. He just stared."

It was the next evening, and Margaret and I were in my backyard, sitting in the shade of the weeping willow by the pond that divided our fathers' property and discussing last night's dinner. I had held off on this part of the evening until I had had my fill of Margaret's imitations of Mrs. Evenson. Margaret was also familiar with the Evensons, since her father and my father were cousins (even though Margaret's father was technically my first cousin, once removed, I still felt compelled to call him Uncle Franklin, or Uncle Frank, out of respect), but she had only met them a few times. Mr. Evenson and my father were both accountants at the same bank in the town about two miles away, and they had grown to be very good friends. Consequently, the Evensons were natural guests at all picnics, dinners, or just any general soiree that my parents held.

"Did anyone else notice?"

"I'm not sure. If they did they didn't say anything about it."

"… Maybe he likes you."

I glanced up from the daisy I was cradling in my hands. Margaret had an evil glint in her eye.

"Don't be ridiculous. He's never shown any interest whatever in me."

"Maybe he's seen the light!" Margaret fell back against the willow, fanning herself with her hand, pretending to swoon.

I felt my face grow warm. "Margaret, stop that."

She sat up. "You never know. Remember that boy who worked at the market? Remember how he was?"

"Yes, I do, and clearly better than you do. _You_ convinced me that he was in love with me, and that he was too shy to say anything. And how did that turn out? He was engaged to be married."

I felt a sad twinge in my heart when I remembered the young man from two years ago. He had been very handsome, and had always smiled at me when I passed by with my mother. After seeing his smile and his warm, brown eyes several times, I confessed to Margaret that I felt myself falling in love. She had insisted on seeing him, regaling me with romantic thoughts of how he was probably writing poems about me amongst the tomato crates, and that I should write him something as well. I felt my cheeks burn again as I remembered the letter that I had anonymously written and placed on top of the apples one day for him to find. Then, I had run to hide and watch him read the letter. The look on his face was degrading enough, but when he showed it to his fellow grocer and they had _laughed_ at it…. My humiliation had somewhat abated with the relieving remembrance that I hadn't had the courage to sign that letter, but the ache I had felt when I learned that he had moved to Columbus to marry… that was still very much present.

Margaret switched tactics. "Yes, but you didn't even know the grocer. You've known Charles for _years_. That's more than enough time for-"

"But I haven't. Not really. I mean, I've known him, been acquainted with him, that is, but we've never really talked much."

"You must have spoken just a little! These things can take so little time. All it takes is a word, sometimes.

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and you're such an expert?"

Margaret chose to ignore my jibe. "Think: has he ever said anything to you that might hint at attraction?"

I wracked my brain. Put on the spot, I couldn't really remember any conversation I had ever had with Charles. "I don't know, like what?"

I shouldn't have asked.

Margaret picked her own daisy. "I don't know, things like," she adopted a deep voice. "'Oh, Esme, I love you! Oh, Esme, my heart beats only for you! Oh, Esme, you are the sun in my lonely… lonely, lonely universe! Oh, Es-'"

"Cut it out!" I was mortified, but I still giggled uncontrollably.

"'Oh, Esme, say you'll be mine! Your eyes! Your soft skin!'"

I lunged at her in an attempt to smother her mouth. She leapt to her feet and climbed onto a low limb of the tree, her imitations now marred with her own laughter. Her eyes held a wicked gleam.

"'Oh, Esme, your delicate hand! The blush that paints thine cheek! Oh! That I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!'"

I threw myself at her again, gaining a foothold on a low branch and pursuing her as she climbed higher.

"'Hey, Esme! Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?'"

We were now high off the ground, Margaret laughing gleefully as she dangled a foot in my face, only to pull it away from my groping hands before reaching for another branch.

"'Thou art more lovely and temperate!'"

"Margaret Platt, you come down here right this minute!"

Margaret, far outside of my reach, perched herself on a branch and began systematically pulling petals off of her daisy, which she had somehow managed to keep a hold of all this time. "Charles loves Esme; he loves her not. He loves her; he loves her not. He loves her…"

"Okay, that's it!" I reached out to grab hold of the branch she was sitting on, but it was too far away, and I needed to change my foothold. I took a big step for a branch just within my reach and shifted my weight.

It all happened very fast. My foot slipped, and I lost my balance. I frantically grabbed for something to hold on to, but there was nothing. Margaret quickly ascertained what was happening and reached out for me, but it was too late. I felt a rush of cold air sting my eyes and draw tears to them.

It was strange: it only took a second to reach the ground, but I had time to contemplate how similar this sensation was to the recurring nightmare in which I was falling – how amazing it was that my mind could so accurately instill in me what it really feels like to fall.

For the briefest of moments, I looked down. It appeared as though the ground was reaching up to envelope me, instead of me coming to meet it. Then I hit the ground and all of my body weight landed on my leg. I dimly heard a loud crack that rent the air and a bloodcurdling scream and I panicked, thinking that Margaret's branch had given out on her.

With my last thought I realized, the scream had come from my lips. And the crack was the sound of my leg snapping underneath me.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the cliff-hanger, everyone. To make it worse, I'm going to be gone all weekend and into next week, so I won't be able to update. But never fear! I promise you a long (really, really, really, really, really long) chapter when I return. In the meantime, please let me know what you think:-) 


	4. Cold Hands

**Author's Note: **Thanks to **twilightprincess2010, miss.dramatikkkk, NellieGURL, **and **tori** for reviewing! I just got back from a very long road trip this evening, so I'll respond to all of your lovely words tomorrow, hopefully, except for **tori**, to whom I'll just respond right now, because I can't personally respond to anonymous reviews, so thank you very much for reviewing, tori! I'm really glad you're enjoying the story! (Hey, that rhymed without my even meaning it to.) :-D

Anyway, I'm sorry I kept you guys waiting with the cliff-hanger for almost five days (my one friend, who has already seen Chapter Three, has been waiting for about two or three weeks, so you're actually luckier than you think!). In recompense for the long wait, I hope you'll accept this 10-page long chapter, which just refused to end.

**Disclaimer: **Twilight and New Moon belong to Stephenie Meyer and her publishers, along with Esme Platt and Carlisle Cullen. Samuel and Miriam Platt, Margaret Platt, and Mrs. Betsy Olmstead belong to me (although you're all welcome to take Betsy off of my hands).

And now, on with Chapter Four!

**4. Cold Hands **

I opened my eyes only slightly so that a sliver of light entered them. _I must be very disoriented, _I thought_, if it's still daylight, why is the sky black?_

"Esme?!"

The worried tone in my mother's voice made me fully open my eyes and glance around for her.

I finally spotted her peering down at me from above, her face pale and her brow creased with concern.

I shifted my weight to try and figure out where I was. The pain stopped me. It traveled up my right leg, up my spine, and out the top of my head in less than a second, leaving me gasping for air, my eyes squeezed shut once more.

"Mother!" I cried in fear.

My mother stroked my hair softly, lulling me with soft sounds.

The pain had lifted the haze of confusion from my brain and replaced it with an irrational but incapacitating fear. My breathing escalated and I felt tears forming in my eyes.

"Where am I?" I demanded breathlessly. I tried lifting my head to see, but a dull ache in my neck ended that effort, too.

"We're in town, darling. Your father is speaking with the doctor right now; he'll take care of you."

"Why do I need a doctor? What's the matter with me?" I felt a sob rise up in my throat – was I going to die? The thought tore me up inside. I remembered the fears I had had when I was younger of my parents dying, but I had never given much thought to my own mortality. I suddenly had images of my own headstone:

**Here lies Esme Anne Platt**

**Born: April 23****rd****, 1895**

**Died: June 12****th****, 1911**

I imagined my mother cutting the grass in front of it with a pair of kitchen shears, her hair prematurely gray. I imagined my father coming home from work, looking up to see a girl skipping into the room. He smiled and reached for her, but his arms closed around nothing, the ghost of his daughter fading into the evening air. And what about Margaret? She always pretended to be nonchalant and carefree, but I knew that she would never forgive herself, that she would blame herself for my death. I opened my mouth to pose the question I did not want to hear the answer to, but no sound came out. Then my mother spoke.

"You fell out of a tree, Esme. We think you've brok-" She broke off. I glanced up at her. She had her hand over her mouth, her eyes closed. I let her regain her composure while I tried looking around again. This time, ignoring the sharp pain in my neck, I succeeded in raising my head enough to have a limited view of my surroundings. I understood why the light had seemed so strange. It was coming in the windows of our covered carriage, the roof of which I had been staring at when I first regained consciousness. I had my head in my mother's lap, leaving the other side of the carriage for the lower half of my body. I noticed that one of my legs looked straight underneath my father's traveling cloak. The other looked… strange. Bent in an odd way.

I started when a figure appeared outside the window. Pain once more shot up the entire right side of my body. I recognized my father just as I managed to stifle the scream so that it only came out as a whimper.

"Miriam," my father said. He and my mother traded a grim look that I didn't understand until he said, "the doctor's away."

"_What?_" my mother sounded as horrified as I felt.

"Away," father repeated. "Apparently there was a case of pneumonia in Marysville. He won't be back until tomorrow afternoon."

"But she can't wait that long! Samuel, her leg – what will we do? She can't wait."

My father thought for a moment. "The nearest hospital is in Columbus. With luck we can get her there before eleven o'clock."

My mother opened her mouth to protest. "It's the only way, Miriam." My mother held her handkerchief up to her mouth, muffling a sob.

"Mother," I said. Both of my parents looked at me as if they had forgotten I was there. "I'll be fine until Columbus. Everything will be fine. The doctor there can take care of my leg… it's broken, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Does it hurt terribly?" she asked me, her voice trembling.

_It depends on your interpretation of "terribly," _I thought, but I lied and said that it hardly hurt at all. My parents again exchanged a long and meaningful look, as though they were having a silent conversation with their eyes.

"All right," my father finally said. "We'll head for Columbus." And with that, he turned and climbed onto the carriage, picking up the reins and giving them a shake.

The ride to Columbus was torturous. The pain in my leg was only a dull ache – when it wasn't moved. But on the uneven road my entire body was jostled this way and that, jolted and shaken in an unending cycle from left to right. I lay my head in my mother's lap and tried to relax, praying that the pain would subside, or that we would hit smoother road, or even that I would pass out again, anything to take the pain away.

I had known days that hadn't lasted this long, but at last the horses slowed. I raised my head slightly, but it was too dark to see anything past the halo of light cast by a nearby lantern. I lowered my head again before I realized that the pain in my neck had subsided.

There was a slight shift in the carriage as my father descended and a low thump as he hit the ground. I looked up at my mother. She was looking anxiously out the window after my father, as if she thought that by sheer willpower she could see in the night.

After a wait that seemed at least as long as the carriage ride, I heard a small racket. A door loudly banging open and closed, hurried footsteps, and several voices.

There was a woman with a shrill voice saying, "she rode _how long?_ Oh! The poor dear!"

My father's voice came quickly as he tried to answer the profusion of questions being shot at him. There was only one calm voice in the trio, a man's smooth voice. His was low, but only because he was speaking quietly, and yet I could hear him as clearly as though he was speaking directly in my ear.

"Have you checked the leg? How swollen is it? How discolored? Are there any signs that the bone may have punctured the skin?"

If I had heard anyone else talking about my bones poking out of my skin, I think I would have screamed, or been sick, or both, yet I felt absolutely no fear when this man voiced such possibilities. Indeed, I suddenly felt safer than I had all evening. I knew that I would never need fear again, that this man and his voice would protect me from anything dangerous.

My father's tone now held a hint of panic. "Punctured the skin? Can it do that? I didn't check her leg. What does that mean if it's swollen and discolored?"

I couldn't understand how my father could be so afraid – didn't he see that this man wouldn't let anything harm me for the rest of my life?

The footsteps stopped, the voices right outside the carriage now. I saw a flash of light outside the window, and then the door opened. My mother put her hand over my eyes to shield them from the sudden profusion of light from the lantern someone held. I was grateful for my mother's thoughtfulness, but, in my fear, I felt a desperate need for sight. What, for instance, was the cause for the woman's sudden revival of her lamentations that had ceased moments before?

"Doctor," my mother's voice was slightly choked with relief.

The voice was smiling, I would tell. "Don't worry, madam, your daughter will be fine. May I?"

Suddenly, I felt a pair of arms slide underneath me and lift me from my mother's embrace. I wrapped my arms around the person's neck, even though as soon as my mother's hand slid off of my face, the lantern's rays blinded me. I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face in a firm chest.

I heard the crunch of gravel, and expected to feel the now-familiar jolt of pain up my right leg as the person began walking. I felt nothing. I was so surprised that I opened my eyes. The lantern was sufficiently behind us that it no longer bothered me. The first thing I saw was my own arm, clinging to this someone's neck. I lifted my head slightly and saw that the man – for it was a man who carried me, and it was decidedly _not_ my father – cradled my leg in such a way that his movements didn't jostle it.

I laid my head on his shoulder, feeling completely safe. I noticed that he had very pale skin, but perhaps it was the light of the lantern – no one's skin should be so white. He had golden hair, and I wondered if it was as soft as it looked. I shifted one of my hands ever so slightly as that I could brush my fingers against the hair at the back of his neck. It was even softer than it looked – like spun silk, or rather, spun gold. His head turned slightly in my direction, and I quickly moved my hand back to its original position, horrified to feel a blush creep up my cheeks. I desperately hoped he wouldn't see it.

The woman, who was clutching the lantern, rushed ahead of us to open the door. I noticed that she was wearing a nurse's outfit.

The inside of the hospital was brightly lit, and I had to squint my eyes again until they adjusted. The golden-haired man carried me easily, and walked quickly down the long hallway and into a dark room. The nurse switched on several lamps as the man set me down on a table. As he stepped back, and I finally got a proper look at him, I barely managed to stifle a gasp. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. And handsome didn't even nearly begin to describe him. His neatly cropped yellow hair fell slightly into his eyes, which from where I was sitting appeared to be as golden as his hair. His skin was every bit as pale as it had looked outside, if not more so. He was tall, over six feet high, but as he moved around, preparing the room, it was with complete grace and agility. I couldn't spy one flaw in his complexion. In fact, I couldn't spy one flaw _anywhere_. His nose, his jaw line, his ears, his eyebrows, his lips – all were perfect.

I found myself completely mesmerized by him, so it took me a moment to register what the nurse was saying to him.

"Will you be needing any surgical tools, Dr. Cullen? The poor child rode for four hours in a carriage – that's more than enough time for gangrene to set in if the bone went through her skin…"

When it was this nurse speaking of my bone coming through my skin instead of the doctor, the prospect seemed much grimmer. I felt a twist in my stomach.

The doctor spoke quietly, but loudly enough for me to hear, "I'm sure everything is fine, Mrs. Olmstead."

Mrs. Olmstead looked over at me. "Look, doctor! She's shaking! The infection may have already taken hold!"

I hadn't realized that I was shaking. Dr. Cullen turned and looked me full in the face for the first time. All coherent thought left my head as he smiled briefly at me. He walked over to me, slipping his arms out of his white jacket.

"It's a cool night, and you're only wearing that light dress." It was a moment before I realized that he was addressing me. He stopped right in front of me and swung his jacket around my shoulders, gently encouraging my hands to take hold of the fabric. The coat wasn't warm, as it should have been. On the contrary, it was rather cold. Perhaps the doctor had only put it on to come outside, and it hadn't had time to sufficiently take on the heat of his body. Nevertheless, I was grateful for the extra layer when I realized that I was, indeed, quite chilly.

"Thank you," I breathed.

He gave me the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. "You're quite welcome, my dear." His smile had stunned me, and it wasn't until I heard the nurse cluck sympathetically that I noticed that I'd forgotten to close my mouth after speaking.

"Oh, doctor, look at her – she's incoherent and dazed. Do you think she'll survive an amputation?"

Dr. Cullen, who had been holding my gaze up until this point, cleared his throat and turned to Mrs. Olmstead. "Betsy, why don't you go and see to Miss Platt's parents? I'm sure Mrs. Platt would appreciate a cup of your marvelous tea."

"But, doctor, I should be here to assist-" Dr. Cullen turned to the nurse and looked her full in the eye, and something very strange happened. Her eyes seemed to go blank and her mouth, too, fell open.

"Now," was all Dr. Cullen said.

"All right," Mrs. Olmstead murmured. She turned to go, but stopped at the door. "If she needs held down, doctor-"

"Mrs. Olmstead!"

"Yes, doctor." She left, closing the door behind her.

Dr. Cullen turned back to me and smiled again. "Well, Esme, is it? From what I hear you had yourself a battle with a vicious tree earlier this evening."

I couldn't speak, so I just nodded.

He smiled and stepped closer to me. He placed his hands at the hem of my skirt. "May I?" I didn't understand what he was asking, but I nodded anyway.

He lifted my skirt and pushed it up my legs. I was shocked and embarrassed. I opened my mouth to protest when I noticed the object of his attention: my right leg, bruised and bent at an odd angle. He folded my skirt neatly at my knees and leaned over my right leg, examining it.

"I must say it seems to have been quite an unfair duel. You should tell that tree to pick on someone its own size next time." I immediately felt shame rush through me; what would he ever do to hurt me?

Dr. Cullen shifted my left leg slightly to get a better view of the side of my right leg.

"Although I'm sure you gave as well as you got; that tree probably deeply regrets having ever instigated a fight with someone as brave as you, my dear… I _am_ correct in assuming that the tree started it, aren't I?" He glanced up, but when he noticed my conflicted expression, the amusement left his face.

"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling sadly. "This must be… uncomfortable for you."

I recognized his double entendre and wanted to let him see that I appreciated his kindness and gentleness. I smiled shyly. "That willow will think twice next time." I only managed a whisper, but I could tell that he heard every word as he flashed another one of his smiles at me. My mind went blank again, and I heard myself blurt out, "I was climbing the tree."

Dr. Cullen nodded. "Your father mentioned that. You followed your friend, correct?"

"Yes. But it wasn't her fault!" I exclaimed, suddenly needing to remove any shred of guilt that might befall Margaret.

Dr. Cullen raised his eyebrows. "I thought we had established that it was the tree who was at fault?"

I let out a small laugh. "Yes." Dr. Cullen raised his head and looked straight into my eyes. It seemed like an eternity that we sat there, looking into each other's eyes, smiling. It had just occurred to me that I would happily have stayed lost in his strange but entrancing golden eyes for years when he blinked suddenly and dropped his gaze. He continued examining my leg from all angles, cocking his head every which way so as to avoid moving it. Then, he raised his hands, palms out, in front of me to signify that he was going to touch me, and gently placed the tips of his fingers on the swelling.

I jumped. His hands were absolutely frigid. I felt gooseflesh run up and down my arms. He looked up and smiled apologetically once more.

"I'm sorry. They're always cold."

I remembered what my mother always told me when I came inside out of a wintry day, and said before I could stop myself, "Cold hands, warm heart."

He shook his head. "I don't necessarily think that's true."

"Why not?"

"Well," he reached out and took my hand in his, "your hands are very warm, my dear."

We shared another look; everything around us seemed to blur. Nothing else mattered. He leaned forward and I found myself doing the same. I felt the conflicting sensation of my heart stopping in its tracks and pounding at the same time as I watched him tilt his head slightly to one side. Just as I felt my own head tip to the opposite side, he jerked himself away suddenly, looking angry. He was on his feet so fast that I didn't even see him rise. I saw his jaw clenched tightly before he turned away, giving his head a firm shake.

I watched him, troubled. _What was that? _Finally, after what seemed like ages, but in reality was only a few seconds, he turned back to me, all traces of anger and frustration vanished. He reseated himself at the foot of the table and pulled a grim expression.

"Well, Esme, I'm afraid I have some very bad news."

My eyes widened in horror. While entranced by his presence I had entirely forgotten why I was here. I tried to look brave; nevertheless, my voice shook. "Yes?"

He looked terribly grave. "I'm afraid you'll be up and about in time for the start of the school year."

I giggled, any remaining tension gone.

"Your leg is broken, however," he continued, looking slightly more serious now. "And I'll need to set it and cast it before you can go home."

I nodded, and wondered how to ask 'does that hurt?' without sounding childish. Before I could frame the question, though, he seemed to read my mind.

"I'm afraid that setting the bone can be rather painful. But, truthfully, you could be a lot worse off. This is a nice, clean break."

At my puzzled look, he qualified. "Basically, if you _had_ to break your leg, you did it the best way." He grinned at me briefly, taking my breath away.

"Would you like me to bring your parents in?" He asked.

I took a deep breath and shook my head. "No, thank you. I'll be fine." There was even less conviction in my voice than there was in my head. I didn't always handle pain very well.

Dr. Cullen nodded. "Very well," he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

I took another deep breath and closed my eyes.

"Would you like something to bite on?"

I opened my eyes. He was looking at me with concern written all over his face. I hadn't realized that, when I had closed my eyes, I had tensed my entire body. I let out a breath I was also unaware I was holding. I shook my head again, and he nodded again. He placed his hands gently on my leg, but I still felt a dull throbbing from the multiple bruises.

He glanced up at me. "I'll count to three, shall I?"

"Mm-phm," I said, biting my lip.

"One… two…"

"Wait!" I suddenly cried.

He looked up, startled. "What is it?"

"Is it, 'one, two, three, and then go' or is it, 'one, two, and go on three'?"

He furrowed his brow, pretending to be deep in thought. "'One, two, and go on three,' I should think."

I nodded. "All right."

He returned his attention to my leg.

"One… t-"

"Stop!"

He looked up, but he just waited for me to speak this time.

I was suddenly feeling very light-headed, and the room felt hot. When I spoke, my voice sounded far away and weak.

"M-maybe you could just surprise me."

I watched his eyes as he analyzed mine. This time his serious expression was not a jest.

All at once, sharp pain shot through my leg, up my spine, paralyzing me, and briefly flooded my entire body. I felt a rushing in my ears and my vision blurred and changed colors, until everything was black.

Suddenly, I felt a pair of strong arms around me, cradling me. They gently leaned me backwards until my head was resting on a thin pillow. I was so disoriented that I didn't know who had their arms around me, but I knew that I felt safe once more. When the arms gently let me go and started to slide out from underneath me, I instinctually clutched at them; I never wanted to be let go. I heard a small chuckle as the arms gently detached mine.

Then, I felt something very cool on my face. Something that smelled wonderful.

I opened my eyes and realized that Dr. Cullen had placed his hand over my forehead. It felt as good as it smelled, so I closed my eyes and allowed myself to relax, thinking I could sleep for hours like this.

I was therefore rather disappointed when he removed his hand. My eyes snapped open. He smiled down at me and chuckled again.

"You blacked out for a minute, there. Glad to have you back; I enjoy your company."

I blushed and dropped his gaze shyly. It was then that I noticed that my skirt was no longer folded at my knees, but back down around my legs. I sat up quickly. I could see white bandages and plaster peeking out from underneath my skirt.

I was completely bewildered; how long had I been unconscious? I remembered being caught hold of and lain down. How could Dr. Cullen have bandaged me that quickly? I turned to ask him what had happened, but I was worried I would sound foolish, so I kept quiet.

Dr. Cullen cleaned up the extra bandages that hadn't been there before, either. I watched him silently. Finally, he turned to me and said, "I believe I can bring Mrs. Olmstead in with your parents, now. I imagine you'd like to go home?" He was smiling, but my heart sank. I had completely forgotten that I would have to leave. This presented a problem. I didn't want to leave; I never wanted to leave. How could I leave? I felt like dissolving into tears, but I just smiled.

I drank in every move he made. I knew it wasn't polite to gawk, but I stared at him as he strolled to the door, opened it, and called out into the hallway. I committed to memory the way that his voice sounded when it was raised slightly.

"Mrs. Olmstead? Could you please bring Miss Platt's parents in?"

The wait before the nurse and my parents came into Dr. Cullen's and my room was entirely too short. I felt very fidgety; why couldn't we be alone together again?"

My mother rushed to my side and embraced my head tenderly, stroking my hair and murmuring, "Oh, Esme, darling…"

My father turned his attention instead to my doctor. "Well? How is she?"

Dr. Cullen smiled, and I found myself suddenly jealous and angry with my father. Why did Dr. Cullen smile at _him_, now? And why did we have to live so far away from the city?

"Your daughter is going to be just fine, Mr. Platt. You should be very proud of her; she's a very courageous girl."

Now that I was out of immediate danger, my father was stern. "I'm very glad to hear that. Perhaps this will teach her to be mature and stop climbing trees like a wild animal." This last comment was directed at me, and my face burned again. I tried to surreptitiously conceal my face in my mother's arms, so Dr. Cullen wouldn't see the redness to my cheeks.

Dr. Cullen reached inside a pocket and withdrew a watch. "Hmm. It's nearing midnight. May I suggest that you find a place to bed down for the night? It's a long drive you made. There's a very nice place just down the street that I could show you."

My father opened his mouth, but my mother cut him off, saying, "That would be lovely. Thank you so much, doctor."

Dr. Cullen smiled again. "My pleasure."

He came over to the table and this time his smile was solely for me. He held out his hands. "May I?"

I felt as though I were soaring. I once more desperately tried not to blush as I nodded and placed my arms around his neck.

Mrs. Olmstead, who had been hovering over my bedside, wringing her hands, anxiously glanced back and forth between Dr. Cullen and myself, clicking her tongue. Finally, when he lifted my gently into his arms, she could apparently contain herself no longer.

"Oh, you poor child!" She fretted. "And you're still a growing girl. Now it's unlikely that your legs will ever be the same length again!"

I felt the color drain from my cheeks as I stared, horrorstricken, into Dr. Cullen's face.

He smiled easily around at the similar expressions on both my face and my mother's, and chuckled. I could feel the rumble of his laughter, deep within his chest. "I wouldn't worry about that, Mrs. Olmstead," he said. "We'll just have to be sure that she doesn't eat her fruits and vegetables for the next eight weeks." He looked into my eyes and winked. I immediately relaxed; a laugh even escaped me.

Dr. Cullen turned to my parents. "Shall we?"

My father held the door for us as we exited the room. Dr. Cullen stepped through with a word of thanks and glided down the hall, with me in his arms. I turned and looked over his shoulder as my father closed the office door. The nameplate on the door said "Dr. Carlisle Cullen." Carlisle…. I sighed and leaned my head against his chest, and I couldn't resist burying my face slightly into the crook of his neck.

I suddenly felt cool air wash over me, rustling my hair slightly. My eyes opened – I hadn't even realized they had closed. I lifted my head from its comfortable position to look around. It was pitch black, and I couldn't see anything at all, except for a couple of very small, dim lights in the distance. How Dr. Cullen could see where he was going was a wonder to me. My eyes hurt just from straining to see the flickering lights that we were walking towards. I gave up and rested my head once more on his shoulder.

It was then that I became aware of how tired I was. The eyes behind my impossibly heavy lids itched and ached. I turned my head slightly and tried to surreptitiously inhale Dr. Cullen's heavenly smell. It was unlike anything I had ever smelled before. I simply couldn't place it. It was a sweet smell, but it wasn't floral, and it also had body to it, a certain mouthwatering quality, but he didn't smell of any food I had ever tasted.

It made my head spin. I sighed. The gentle rhythm of the combination of Dr. Cullen's stride and his breath, both so even, both so… reassuring, was very relaxing. So soothing.

Perhaps if I just closed my eyes for a moment….

* * *

**Author's Note: **What did you think? Did the long-ness make up for the long wait? Please let me know: all reviewers will receive their very own Carlisle Cullen in a button down, long sleeve shirt in the color of their choice. Oh, and did I mention that the shirt will be _wet?_


	5. Eight Weeks

**Author's Note: **::flinches:: Okay, so that was a longer wait than I anticipated, but I can explain, I swear! I would have had this up last night, but the stinking computer froze on me at 12:15 in the morning, and _of course _I had forgotten to click "save," so I had to re-write almost the entire chapter. So you see? It was the stupid Dell's fault. ::sigh:: I love my Mac. I miss my Mac.

Anyway, thanks to **Seul Lune, NellieGURL, fantasyfan7 **(I'll properly thank you in a minute)**, miss.dramatikkkk, **and **cakeaddict61** for reviewing!

** fantasyfan7:** thank you very much for reviewing! I'm glad you didn't think the wait was too long. I agree with you about the end of the chapter. To be honest with you, the thing was running really, really long, and I wanted to have it written and saved in the computer before I left so that I could just upload it as soon as I got home, but it simply refused to end, so I just decided to conk her out. ;-)

And now, for the award ceremony: A very wet, very sexy Carlisle in a red shirt goes to **NellieGURL, **and since **miss.dramatikkkk **found herself stuck between a purple and a blue shirt, she gets to have a Carlisle who changes from a wet, purple shirt to a dry, fluffy blue shirt right in front of her (yes, yes, I treat my reviewers well). **Seul Lune, fantasyfan7, **and **cakeaddict61** didn't specify on the color, so I'll choose for them: a Carlisle in a wet, black shirt goes to **Seul Lune, **a Carlisle in a wet, white shirt goes to **fantasyfan7,** and a Carlisle whose shirt is covered in chocolate layer cake goes to **cakeaddict61.**

Well, that's enough from me, so after a quick disclaimer, on with the chapter!

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt, and Carlisle Cullen belong to Stephenie Meyer (and we can't thank her enough, can we?) Samuel and Miriam Platt, Margaret Platt, Franklin Platt, and Dr. Malcolm belong to me. David Copperfield belongs to Charles Dickens, and The Count of Monte Cristo belongs to Alexandre Dumas. Also: see if you can spot my little tribute to the writers of Casablanca in here!

All right, enough! Go read!

**5. Eight Weeks**

I felt the rumbling rhythm long before I woke. It was there, in the back of my head, slowly working its way to the front as I slept on. Eventually it succeeded in breaking out of the peripherals of my mind and into the foreground. My eyes sluggishly opened.

This time there was no confusion as to where I was. Daylight streamed into the windows of the carriage, casting yellow light over everything it touched. The noise and vibrations that had woken me were coming from the horse's hoofbeats on the dry road. None of this held any significance for me for the first few moments of my return to consciousness. My mind was unusually silent as I stared at the roof. However, something new was beating itself against the walls of my brain now, fighting for attention. What it was didn't make itself known until I glanced up and saw my mother smiling down at me.

"Esme," my mother said. It wasn't a statement any more than a question. She said my name just to say my name, and I was absolutely devastated.

I sat straight up. No! It couldn't be! I twisted around to look at my mother, who met my gaze with confusion. My eyes raked over her appearance. She was wearing the same clothes that she had been wearing before I went outside to talk with Margaret. Before I talked with Margaret… it seemed like it had been such a long time. How long had it been? I looked around again. My father was driving the horses, and my head was pounding again. I had been laying in my mother's lap exactly the same as before….

My heart sank. No. My heart disappeared. Last night had been a dream. Perhaps there hadn't even _been_ a last night. Perhaps it was twilight, not sunrise, and we were headed for town. Perhaps the doctor would be in. Perhaps he would tend my leg the same way he had tended to my thousand childhood maladies. Perhaps we would go straight home. I felt a scream of anguish building up inside of me.

"Esme?" This time it was a question. I felt my mother's gentle hands on either of my shoulders. I turned towards my mother. I looked into her beautiful eyes and felt myself break. In an instant, I had thrown my arms around her and begun sobbing uncontrollably into her chest.

My mother stroked my hair soothingly, whispering sweetly in my ear. "Oh, Esme, darling. It's all right, sweetheart. We're only minutes from home and then Daddy will put you in your nice warm bed and prop your leg up so it won't hurt anymore."

My leg? My sobs immediately ceased. I pulled myself away from my mother's embrace and gawked at my lower body. It was again covered with my Father's traveling cloak, which I hastily ripped aside. There, peeking out from under my skirt, were my two legs. And one was covered in bandages and plaster. I swiped my hands over my face, clearing it of tears, just to make sure that my vision wasn't impaired. I blinked several times and then looked down at myself again. I suddenly had the urge to laugh, or sing, or shout… or grab the reins from my father and head straight for Columbus.

I looked at my mother again, and to affirm what I was seeing, asked, "Last night was real?"

My mother smiled sympathetically at me. "Yes, it was. I know it must all seem so surreal to you now."

I was speechless. My mother's perfect brow creased lightly. "Esme, are you feeling all right? Do you have a fever?" She slipped one of her gloves off and pressed a hand against my forehead. Her hand was soft and gentle, but it was far too warm for my preference.

The horses slowed. I ducked out of my mother's hand and looked out the window. We were now driving down the long lane to our white house. My father stopped the carriage in front of the porch, and jumped down. He opened the door and peered in at my mother and me.

"Oh, good, you're awake. How is your leg feeling?"

I nodded, still unable to speak.

My father grunted. "Well, then, grab 'hold of me and I'll take you inside."

He reached inside for me and I wrapped my arms around his neck. When he lifted me, it wasn't the effortless motion that I had recently taken a liking to. My father struggled a bit with me and his steps into the house and up the stairs to my room were halting at best. My mother followed after us and opened the door to my room for my father. This was all so familiar, but it was wrong. My father didn't cradle me against his body, and there was no lantern, or golden hair, or distressed nurse. All of it was completely wrong.

My mother pulled the blankets down on my bed and my father laid me on the mattress. My mother perched herself on the edge of the bed. It was as my father massaged his lower back and my mother tucked me in, having put a pillow underneath my right leg, that I noticed what I was wearing.

I gasped. There was a white jacket overtop of my dress.

My mother looked up at the sound. "Oh, dear, did I bump it?"

I examined one arm, the white sleeve extending many inches past my fingertips, and then simply showed it to my mother, like a young wonder-stricken child, who wants to share with the world some fascinating finding in nature.

My mother gazed at me, concern written on all of her features. She was without a doubt wondering about my sanity by now. I needed answers, so I forced myself to speak.

"The coat…"

She smiled. "Oh, yes. That Dr. Cullen thought you should keep that, in case the weather turned for the worse. He was such a thoughtful man, wasn't he, Samuel?"

My father made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

I was in a daze. I guess my mother must have noticed my glazed expression when she glanced back at me, so she said, "Well, we'll let you get some sleep, Esme. You couldn't have gotten a good night's rest in that rickety carriage." She rose from the bed and headed for the door with my father. "Although that place that the doctor recommended was really _very_ comfortable." The door closed.

I absently stroked the fabric of the coat. His coat. My coat. _Our _coat. I sighed. Eight weeks could not pass quickly enough.

* * *

But pass they did, sluggish as they were. I wasn't much use around the house for the rest of the summer. I could barely leave my room, let alone navigate the stairs. My parents helped me to get around as best they could, and on Independence Day my father carried me outside to look at the annual fireworks display that he and Uncle Franklin put on for the townspeople, but mostly I was confined to my room.

Margaret was a godsend, though. After she rushed into my room the day of my return and sobbed helplessly at the sight of my bed-ridden state, she came to see me every day. She brought me fresh flowers every other day, lemonade and cookies that her mother made, and she even brought a pencil and drew pictures on my cast.

I quickly finished David Copperfield, so Margaret smuggled The Count of Monte Cristo into my room, and I devoured it rapidly, despite its length.

For some reason, I neglected to tell Margaret about my encounter with Dr. Cullen, or Carlisle, as I had come to think of him. Every evening after she went home, I asked myself why I hadn't told her. The only answer I could come up with was that what had transpired was between the two of us, and that was how it should stay: between the two of us.

Finally, the weather turned, and a week before school was to commence, my Mother announced to me at breakfast that I would have my cast removed that day. I was overjoyed, obviously.

"Oh, Mother! Really?"

Mother beamed at me. "Really. You and your father will leave as soon as breakfast is over. You should consider yourself lucky that there was an open appointment on the weekend. Otherwise, you would have had to wait until Monday."

I flinched. "Oh, that would be awful." Three extra days would have been an eternity. I couldn't now remember how I had gotten through those eight weeks, now that they had passed.

I gathered up my dishes. "May I be excused, Mother?"

My Mother glanced at my plate. "But Esme, you've hardly even touched your eggs."

"I haven't much of an appetite this morning," I argued.

My father looked over his paper at me. "Is there something wrong with your mother's cooking, Esme?" he asked.

I lowered my gaze. I had lost before he had even spoken. "No, sir," I mumbled.

"Then finish your food. You won't set foot out of this house before you've cleaned your plate off."

My stomach felt too full of excitement to manage one more bite, but I knew that my father would keep his word, so I forced the rest of the meal down.

My father must have been keeping an eye on my progress, because as soon as I swallowed the last of my milk, he folded his paper and rose from his chair.

"I'll go and prepare the horse."

I clumsily stood and carried my dishes into the kitchen and placed them in the sink. I attempted to help my mother clean them, but my mind was clearly elsewhere. My mother eventually sent me away after I placed a dish that I had just finished drying back into the rinse water.

My father helped me outside and up into the carriage, which was a different one from the one I had ridden to Columbus in. This one was a light, bouncy thing without a top, and was driven by only one horse.

Father saw that I was situated and then gave the reins a shake. The horse set off at a brisk trot. I reveled in the feel of the autumn air on my face, and realized that I had a smile frozen in place. Father noticed my expression and chuckled, which elicited a giggle from me. I surveyed our small town with an inordinate amount of interest as we drove through it, leaving a small cloud of dust in our wake. I hardly realized that we were slowing down until the carriage came to a stop. I looked at my father.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Because we're here, child."

Here? I looked at the building we had stopped in front of. The sign read _Dr. Malcolm, Medical Services._ A feeling of horror washed over me.

"What about Columbus?" I asked, my voice strained and high pitched.

"What about it?" was my father's answer.

"Well, Dr. Cullen set my leg, shouldn't he-"

"What's the use of going all the way to Columbus when we've got a perfectly capable doctor right here?" My father jumped down from the carriage and landed on the ground with a dull _thump._ He reached up to help me clamber helplessly down as the door to the office opened. I turned to see Dr. Malcolm, familiar with his ring of white hair around his otherwise bald head and his warm smile.

"Ah, Esme. Good to see you, m'girl."

I semi-consciously felt myself leaning on my father and hobbling into the office that used to feel like a safe haven, but now felt like a prison. Nothing had changed in Dr. Talcum's for as long as I could remember, from its dark wooden paneling to the way the light came through the blinds. But as much as I used to find comfort in its familiarity, I now dreaded it. How could I have been so stupid? Of course we wouldn't go all the way back to Columbus.

The removal of the cast was actually very uncomfortable. Quite a bit of pressure was put on my leg, and I feared that it would snap again. When at last my skin was revealed, Dr. Malcolm ran his hand over the former injury.

"That's quite a nice healing job. That doctor you had must've known his stuff."

"Dr. Cullen," I answered the question before he could ask it.

Dr. Malcolm chuckled. "Well, I guess you won't be so eager to go climbing on weepin' willows after this, will you, young lady?"

"The tree started it," I blurted out unthinkingly.

Both the doctor and my father looked at me as though I had just said that I had seen a flying fish. I couldn't meet either of their eyes, so I opted to stare at the paintings that had been there since before I was born.

I felt ashamed, like I had betrayed Carlisle and myself. As though I had ruined the purity of our conversation by speaking of it to others. I wanted to forget about the terrible injustice I had done to us, but my father brought it up as we drove home.

"Honestly, child, what goes on in your head? _'The tree started it'_!" he mocked.

I couldn't open my mouth, or I was going to burst into tears, so I simply kept silent.

I re-entered the house without assistance for the first time in two months, but I didn't find any enjoyment in the act. My mother beamed at me and hugged me, and I had to bite my cheek to stop the tears. She held me at arms' length, still smiling.

"Margaret's waiting in your room, Esme. She's very excited for you."

I nodded and forced myself to smile. "Thank you. I suppose I'll go and see her now."

On the way up the stairs, I noticed that my right leg felt much weaker than the left, and I had to cling to the railing in order to make it to the top. It gave out on me at the top of the stairs, and I half-dragged myself into my room, using the walls for support.

I opened the door to my room and stumbled in. Margaret jumped off of my bed, smiling so widely her entire face seemed to glow. She skipped towards me, stopping several feet in front of me. She looked me over very ostentatiously.

"What, no peg leg? I'm so disappointed, I was misinformed."

I didn't answer. Her smile disappeared immediately. I met her piercing gaze for just a moment, but it was enough for her.

"What's wrong, Esme?"

Something inside of me gave way. Both of my knees buckled beneath me, and I collapsed. Margaret caught me just before I hit the ground, and she held my head as my entire body heaved in grief.

She didn't say a word. She just cradled me and held me tight. I don't know how long we sat there, me weeping and Margaret not uttering a word, but I eventually regained control of myself and she gently kissed the top of my head. She handed me a handkerchief and politely looked away while I cleaned my face and blew my nose.

She finally broke the silence when I offered her the sodden lump of cloth. "Um, that's okay."

I laughed thickly.

She looked into my eyes again. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

And so finally, I told her about him. I told her everything, from the way his voice sounded and the way he smelled to the way I felt when he held me in his arms and put his hand over my face. I told her about how he had looked into my eyes. I told her about the jacket that I had hidden deep within my wardrobe. She got to her feet and threw the doors wide, searching through my clothes until she found it. When she brought it to the surface and I saw the fabric, I started to cry again.

"Don't, Esme, everything will be fine."

I shook my head fiercely, burying my face in my hands. "No, it won't. I'll never see him again, Margaret. _How_ can that be fine?"

She considered my situation for a long moment. I could tell she was very deep in thought from the way that her eyebrows pulled together and she bit along the inside of her mouth. Eventually, she emerged from her contemplation.

"Esme, you're going to see your doctor again very soon."

I looked up. "Impossible. How?"

"That's simple. You're going to go and see him in Columbus."

"How? Why? Why should I go there? What excuse do I have? What do you think - that I'm going to be lucky enough to break another appendage when Dr. Malcolm is away?"

She shrugged. "I don't think it necessarily has to be quite _that_ drastic."

"Then what?" I demanded, annoyed at the smile that was spreading across her face.

"Well," she said innocently, her face arranged into the image of virtue. She tugged at the sleeve of the coat. "It's not polite to borrow something and not return it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well? Did you like it? Please let me know! 


	6. Fire

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I'm really sorry this took a while to update (yet again). I'm thinking that the wait's going to be a bit longer for the next few months. You see, I'm in two plays this summer, and rehearsals for the one can run pretty late, and by the time I get back I'm completely beat. Not that that's an excuse or anything, but I think it would be safe to say to expect an average of a week's wait between updates... sorry. Please still like me. ::showers reviewers with conversation hearts - after removing the cruel ones such as "get real" and "in ur dreams," of course::

Anyhoo, thanks to **miss.dramatikkkk, SockShopping, Isabel Hale, MissAlyssa, NellieGURL, Ame Warashi... Ame Warashi... **um, **Ame Warashi, **and **cakeaddict61** for reviewing!

**MissAlyssa: **EEE!! Thank you so much for reviewing! You know, my Dad says that you should be able to count the number of times you use an exclamation point in your entire life on one hand... I wonder how many fingers we both have by now? I do love the compliments, though... :-)

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt, Carlisle Cullen, and Charles Evenson all belong to the wonderful (and very much endowed) Stephenie Meyer. Miriam and Samuel Platt, Margaret Platt, Margaret's Mom Platt (whom I haven't name yet, if you haven't noticed), Dr. Williams, Skippy, and Jimmy belong to me (although Jimmy was based upon my sister's former horse of the same name, and he wishes me to say that he belongs solely to himself). ::sighs:: Here we go: Romeo & Juliet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, and the Sonnets (particularly number 87) belong to William Shakespeare. David Copperfield and Oliver Twist belong to Charles Dickens. And last but most definitely not least, The Count of Monte Cristo belongs to Alexand-ray... dumb-ass - just kidding! It belongs to Alexandre Dumas. Whew! All right! On with the chapter! Go. :-)

**6.** **Fire**

"I still think this is a bad idea, Margaret."

"You hush up. It's a brilliant idea and you know it."

"Margaret, we're going to get caught. What are you doing?"

"I'm organizing the rebel forces – what does it _look_ like I'm doing? I'm trying to saddle up this ridiculous horse! Why won't he take the bit, Esme?"

"Maybe because that's a halter."

Margaret glanced at the piece of tack in her hands, then looked up at me sheepishly. I tried to maintain a look of nonchalance as I shrugged and said, "Might have something to do with it."

Margaret sighed and threw down the halter, looking around for the bridle. "Well, if you're such an accomplished equestrian, why don't you take care of the other horse?"

I curtsied. "With pleasure."

For all of our bickering, there was a feeling of excitement in the air, a sort of tingle that pervaded all of my senses. It was late at night, and we had sneaked out of our bedrooms to converge in Uncle Franklin's stable. We were heading for Columbus, and according to Margaret, we wouldn't stop until we got there. With luck, Margaret had said while poring over a map she had "borrowed" from her father, we would be back long before anyone woke up the next morning. "After all," she had said, "you said that it was just past sunrise when you got home the first time, and you spent who knows how long in that inn."

Despite the late hour, I felt wide-awake; all of my senses were alert. That was partially due to the coffee that Margaret had forced me to swig, but mostly because, ever since she and I had started planning this insane rendezvous, I was completely and utterly consumed with the idea of seeing Carlisle again. I passed through the intervening days between the conception of this plan to this night in a daze, a fog that had only lifted this evening, when Margaret gave me the signal that the plan was a go – her, standing outside my window and hooting like an owl. Ridiculous as her wild evasive tactics undoubtedly were, I reluctantly found myself caught up in the intrigue of sneaking away in the night, though that could hardly be considered very high on my list of motives.

Margaret finished saddling her horse and came over to assist me, to speed the process up.

"There," she said, satisfied, when the saddle was sufficiently tight and the bridle (complete with bit) was in place. She turned to me.

"All right. Supply check-list."

I looked at her, nonplussed. "What were we supposed to bring?"

"Well… what about a lantern, in case it's overcast in Columbus?"

I picked up the lantern we had saddled the horses by and blew it out. For a moment, we were completely doused in darkness. Then, by degrees, the light from the blessedly full moon began to light the stable up. I used a leather thong to tie the lantern to my horse's saddle. I clapped off my hands. "Check."

"Hmm…" Margaret thought, trying to come up with other essentials that our mission would require. "What about food?"

"We'll be back before morning."

"True." She sighed disappointedly. "I guess that's it then."

"No it isn't," I interjected. "Map?"

She reached inside her father's voluminous riding coat and pulled out a folded map from one of the pockets. "Got it."

I nodded. "Let's go, then."

She grinned at me. "Mount up."

We both mounted our horses. I looked over at Margaret, and my mouth fell open.

"Margaret!" I scolded, "your skirt will be all the way up your legs if you ride like that!"

"Trust me, you do not want to ride for three hours side-saddle."

I debated for a moment, and then hesitantly swung my leg over to the other side of the saddle. It was the first time in three years that I had ridden astride. It felt completely natural, and my legs automatically gripped the sides of the horse.

Margaret looked at me appraisingly. "A very wise choice, if I do say so myself." She winked, and then clicked her tongue. "Come on, Skippy." She set off out of the stable and into the long lane leading towards the road. I trotted after her until I caught up.

"Skippy?" I laughed.

She grinned again "He looks like a Skippy, doesn't he?" She pressed her heels into Skippy's flanks and took off down the drive at a slow canter. I followed suit. She stopped to wait for me at the crossroads that led either to my father's house or to town.

She looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes dancing. "Ready to see your doctor, Esme?"

I gasped. "The coat! I've forgotten the coat in the stable!" I whipped my horse around and raced back into the barn. Once in there, I swiftly jumped off and snatched up the coat from where I had placed it so that it would be safe from the dirt. I re-mounted, turned tail and galloped him back to the crossroads. Margaret and I shared a wary look. Then, simultaneously, we broke into grins and began mindlessly giggling. Margaret rolled her eyes.

"Are you ready, now?"

I slipped the coat under my skirt where it would be protected from the dust from the road and we finally set off for good.

The ride to Columbus was actually a very beautiful one, now that I could properly enjoy the scenery. It also seemed much faster, now that I wasn't writhing in pain and praying for oblivion. Margaret and I passed the time by singing, and when we ran out of songs, many miles flew by while we decided on a name for my horse.

"Whitey?"

"Too lackadaisical."

"Georg?"

"Too formal."

"Cookie?"

"Too… past-ry." We giggled.

"Dapples?"

"Too silly."

"And Skippy isn't silly?"

"Skippy has character. Dapples is just…"

"Jimmy?"

"… Not bad."

We had to stop and consult the map several times, or whenever we came to a crossroads that didn't have a sign. At such times it was necessary to light the lantern, but otherwise the moon lit our way. It still hung high in the sky when I began to see forms on the horizon that weren't mountains.

"Look! Buildings!"

"It could be just another town."

"No, it can't be – I just know it."

I pressed my heels into Jimmy's sides hard and we flew down the path, Margaret soon right behind us.

The buildings rose above us, and I let out a very un-ladylike whoop when we came to a sign welcoming us to Columbus below a population number that looked as though it had been painted over many times.

I slowed Jimmy to a trot and briskly traversed the streets, searching for the hospital. Margaret pulled up alongside me.

"What side of the street was it on?"

"I can't remember."

"You take the left side and I'll take the right, then."

I nodded and squinted at each sign on the left side of the road. Bookstores, grocery stores, blacksmiths… but no hospital.

"Look!" I turned my head so fast that I felt it crack deep inside, something I had come to get used to ever since I had fallen from the tree.

A sign hanging from a lamppost read, _Columbus Hospital_.

"We're here," I whispered reverently. Margaret and I stopped short in front of the building that looked so familiar and so strange at the same time, upon seeing it with more light. I suddenly felt very afraid. I had felt fine moments before, but now I was crippled with doubt.

"Margaret," I said throatily, "why am I here? He's not going to believe me. Why would I come all of this way just to return his coat? It's ridiculous, and he's going to know that."

"That's the point, Esme. You _didn't_ come here just to return the coat."

"Can we just turn around and go home, Margaret? Please? Let's just go."

"_No,_ Esme," Margaret reproached me sternly. "From what you told me, Esme, you're not the only one who felt something."

"What makes you say that? There was absolutely no indication-"

"There was, Esme, there was. Don't you see it? I wasn't even _there_ and it's as clear as the nose on my face!" She tapped the side of her nose for emphasis.

I hesitated. "Do you honestly believe that?"

"In my soul."

My doubts still overwhelmed me, and I really don't know what I would have decided to do, but I was spared that choice by the sound of the door opening.

"Can I help either of you girls?"

We both started at the sound of the voice. My heart leapt, but only because I was startled. We broke our intense gaze and looked around at the sound of the grizzly voice. Standing in the open doorway was an older man wearing a long, white coat similar to the one that I clutched convulsively in my hands.

Before I could say anything, Margaret intercepted me. "Yes, please. We're here to see Dr. Carlisle Cullen. We have something that belongs to him, and we're returning it."

The man's brow furrowed. "Dr. Cullen?"

Margaret nodded crisply. "Yes. So could you please tell him that Miss Esme Platt is here to see him?" She then nodded once in my direction. The man looked from Margaret to me, and then shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"I'm real sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, girls, but Dr. Cullen doesn't work here anymore."

"_What?!_" The word ripped itself from my lips, and the man looked at me, as if startled to see that I could speak.

"Yes. He moved to Chicago, Illinois about a month ago. I'm the new doctor – Dr. Williams. Is there anything I can do for you?"

I didn't even register what he had asked me. All that came out was a strangled, "Chicago?"

Dr. Williams nodded. "I'm sorry you girls didn't know. That's kind of a myst'ry to me, because the whole town seemed to be pretty sorry to see him go. He was a helluva doctor – pardon me."

I only managed a whisper, but I had to ask. "When will he be coming back?"

Dr. Williams shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. He's not coming back."

* * *

I was completely silent on the ride home. Even my horse's hoof-beats seemed muted, or far-off. Margaret was quiet, too. She knew that talking would not help, and what would she way if they would? There was nothing – no words of comfort – that could do anything for me anymore. The most Margaret could do for me was to lead the way back, consulting the map on her own, so that I wouldn't have to think.

The return trip took much longer, and the sky was beginning to lighten when Margaret and I entered our town.

Margaret finally broke our silence by gently murmuring, "I'll take care of the horses when we get home, Esme. Why don't you get some rest?" I didn't bother to answer.

I'm not sure why my attention was suddenly alerted – perhaps Margaret's words had lifted the film over my senses – but I couldn't help but notice that there was an inordinate number of lights up in town for so early in the morning. It still couldn't be past 4:30. I was still too distracted, however, to wonder why.

We continued down the street in silence, and it was a few moments before I registered that there was a third quartet of hoof-beats, and they were much faster. I looked over at Margaret and we traded a glance. We both turned in our saddles and looked over our shoulders. Fast approaching us at a gallop was a man astride a dark horse.

I reflexively followed Margaret's example of pulling the horse over out of the way of the horseman. To my dim surprise, he pulled up his horse next to us.

"Any luck?" He asked. He had a smooth voice, but it was still somehow rough. Margaret and I were both puzzled, and Margaret opened her mouth to say something, but the man was squinting at us, evidently waiting for his eyes to adjust. He looked back and forth between us, and then his eyes widened.

We recognized each other at the same time. It was Charles Evenson, and he looked furious.

"You two!" he snapped. "Where have you been? The whole town is looking for you!"

Margaret's and my mouths both fell open. Charles continued.

"You come with me right now."

He kicked his horse roughly and set the pace at a canter. Margaret and I were frozen with shock. Charles whipped around.

"Come!" he snarled.

Margaret and I followed, bewildered.

Charles set a grueling pace, and even in my current state I managed to muster up some sympathy for his lathering horse. We quickly reached my house, and Charles dismounted in one move. I was very stiff and took a while longer. Charles quickly grew frustrated and reached up and grabbed me by the shoulder, pulling me from my horse. I weakly protested.

He marched the two of us into my house. All of the lights were on. When he opened the front door, I heard a shriek.

"Esme!" My mother threw herself at me, holding me close.

Margaret's mother was there as well, and had much the same reaction.

I numbly appreciated the embrace, and wrapped my arms around mother's waist, but in one motion she pulled me away from her and held me at arm's length. In a movement that I didn't even see, she slapped me hard across the face. My head whipped to one side and I felt tears sting my eyes.

"Where were you?" she demanded, her own eyes sparkling with tears.

"I-I" I struggled for words. She had never hit me before.

I felt a strong pair of hands spin me around. I was now facing my father, who had just come through the door. A wave of fear doused me. He didn't even need to speak. His eyes were cold and enraged. He raised his hand and I flinched, shutting my eyes.

I felt nothing. I opened my eyes to see father running his hand wearily through his hair; he too had his eyes closed.

"Go to bed, Esme," he finally whispered hoarsely.

His words hurt me worse than any others. "Papa," I tried to speak, my voice stunted by emotion.

He shook his head. "Now."

I looked over at Margaret, who was being ushered towards the door by her mother. She looked at me with bright eyes and mouthed, _I'm sorry._

I dropped my head and turned and headed up the stairs, dragging my feet. I still had trouble with the stairs because of my right leg, but I ignored the burning of the muscles as I made my way to my room.

Once inside, I looked around at my walls and my furniture. A fire was burning in the fireplace, casting shadows all around my room.

A sudden fire blazed within me. I launched myself at my bed and reached underneath it.

There, hidden in the frame, were my many books that I had secretly collected for years. I had started with Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, Sonnets, and I had recently branched out to other works, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, The Count of Monte Cristo. All of these I pulled out from various hiding places in my bed.

I stood and stared at the books strewn across my floor. Then, I reached for one. Without looking at the title, I hurled it at the fireplace. I watched as the flames slowly engulfed it. I bent and reached for another without looking and dropped it into the fire. I watched the fire's hypnotic dance. The last of the paper to be swallowed up was the title: Romeo & Juliet.

With an inhuman scream of fury, I grabbed another book. I ripped pages out, shoving them in to join the ashes. Whole sentences turned to dust, and it was though the pages fed flames inside me, as well as the ones inside the stone enclosure. I tossed the empty shell in and captured another. The books screamed. There was screaming in my head, and it wouldn't stop. All this, though, and I didn't cry. I merely picked up another and another and soon they were all blazing.

I watched the conflagration silently, my eyes quite dry. I leaned to rest my hand on the floor and instead came in contact with a lucky page that had escaped my rampage. I picked it up with a mind to send it to meet its maker with its fellows, and my eye fell to the text. The sinuous shadows of the flames danced on my walls and seemed to mock me and consume me, and the tears finally came as I read the familiar lines.

_LXXXVII_

_Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,_

_And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:_

_The charter of thy worth gives three releasing;_

_My bonds on thee are all determinate._

_For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?_

_And for that riches where is my deserving?_

_The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,_

_And so my patent back again is swerving._

_Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,_

_Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;_

_So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,_

_Comes home again, on better judgement making._

_Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,_

_In sleep a king, but waking no such matter._

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, are you all mad at me for torturing Esme? I feel so bad: this chapter started off as so much fun to write, and they were both having such a good time that I felt really guilty for leading them into the ambush that I knew was coming... not that I feel for fictional characters or anything... What? If we can be in love with Edward we can feel bad for Esme, right? ... Um, right? Guys?


	7. My Dear

**Author's Note: **So, I'd like to take a minute and wish Edward Cullen a (albeit, three days late) Happy Birthday!! Happy Birthday, Edward; Muchas Smoochas to you! 3

Thanks to **Sock Shopping, miss.dramatikkkk, Ame Warashi, NellieGURL, **and **cakeaddict61**! A very handsome, grinning Carlisle in a dripping wet, lavender shirt goes to **Ame Warashi** for reviewing Chapter Four!

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, and Esme Platt all belong to Stephenie Meyer. ::bows and presents a live chicken for Stephenie's table:: The Taming of the Shrew belongs to William Shakespeare (what doesn't, really, other than Twilight and Pixy Stix?) Margaret Platt, Frank Bennington, and that weird magician dude belong to me.

**7. My Dear**

_Five years later…_

"Esme, quick! Look at this!"

"Step right up, folks! That's right, meet the man who taught Harry Houdini everything he knows!"

I joined Margaret over by a burly, tanned man who flashed an enormous grin at the small crowd gathered around him. Margaret caught eyes with me and grinned. She gestured my closer.

The magician, at whose feet were strewn such magical mediums as playing cards, brightly colored handkerchiefs, and a black top hat, was preparing for his final display. He held his hands, palms out, open towards the crowd, showing them to be empty. Then, he produced a pair of handcuffs out of thin air. The crowd gasped as one. Margaret and I both giggled.

"And now," he announced, grinning toothily at the crowd, "I will perform a stunt which defies the very laws of nature. An act which can better be said to dwell within the realms of the imagination!" Margaret and I traded a look, both smiling slyly.

"For this act I will need an assistant." He began searching the nervous crowd. "Ah, yes. How about you, pretty lady?" I froze automatically. He was looking right at me. "Yes, you. The one with the brown…ish, um, yellow-brown… the one in the green dress." That was me. I winced. The man chuckled lowly. "Why don't you just step on up here with me, m'lady?"

I turned to Margaret, desperate. _'Help me!' _I mouthed. But instead she grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, giving me a firm push towards the man. He grinned again.

"Now," he said, "if you could please be so kind as to fasten these 'cuffs around my wrists." He wrapped the handcuffs around his wrists so that all I had to do was squeeze them closed. Even so, I could feel my cheeks burning with shyness, and I lowered my face so that no one could see it. Fortunately, I was not the object of attention for very long.

"Observe!" He hollered to the crowd, holding up his chained hands. "I am completely bound by these shackles!" To illustrate his point, he gave several strong yanks to the metal, which responded only with a few sparks between the links when he pulled them taut. He spoke to me again, but in a carrying voice so that the crowd could hear clearly.

"Now, if you please, blow on those chains. Just a little air, my dear."

I stiffened. Other terms of endearment were more common, but no one had called me 'my dear' in five years. No one had _ever_ called me 'my dear' except…

"_Hey,"_ the man hissed under his breath at me, "come on, just go along with it, will you?" I snapped back to reality. I took a breath and then leaned down towards his hands. I blew out quickly, eager to fade back into the obscure crowd.

"_And!"_ the magician held his hands aloft. He gave the chains three gentle tugs. "One, two, three!" The handcuffs broke apart. They landed at his feet, on top of the pile of cards.

The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Excited exclamations rose up like a wave. But somehow, over all of the din, the magician managed to make himself heard. "Thank you, thank you! And for my beautiful assistant," he waved his hands around ostentatiously. A rose appeared. He presented it to me amidst the crowd's approval. I smiled as graciously as I could and accepted the flower. He gestured grandly towards the place I had been standing, and I thankfully retreated.

"Very nice," Margaret smirked at me.

"Oh, hush!" I tried to sound stern, but failed miserably, as I always did around Margaret.

"Did a handsome suitor come calling for dear Esme?"

Margaret's eyes lit up as we both turned towards the sound of the voice.

Striding towards us, holding a cotton candy in either hand, with a third balanced precariously in the crook of his arm, was Frank Bennington. He gave each of us a cheeky grin as he unloaded his burden on us. Margaret's cheeks flushed slightly as their eyes met.

Frank Bennington had swept into town about a year ago on an internship with Dr. Malcolm. Ravishingly handsome with his dark, straight hair, sapphire eyes, and a smile that could melt rock, he was instantly the most sought-after man in town. Margaret had initially scoffed at the reception Frank had received from the ladies in town, talking about how his teeth had probably caught the sun and stunned them all, and when her parents had him over for dinner, she greeted him like an arctic wind. However, Frank had taken a fascination with Margaret, and had spent every waking minute that he wasn't at the hospital pursuing her. Margaret, at the outset, was absolutely infuriated by the audacity of Mr. Bennington, which she made clear in no uncertain terms.

She didn't seem to find it all fair that he had made her fall in love with him.

Astonishingly, though, and in what I liked to think of as my own personal viewing of The Taming of the Shrew, Frank managed to bypass all of Margaret's well-maintained defenses. One morning, Margaret simply knocked on my door and announced to me that she was going to be married.

Their marriage ceremony was only two weeks away, and I had never seen Margaret so ecstatic. All of our friends from school had already married, and they were thrilled to hear that the unattainable Margaret Platt had been attained by the mysterious and charming man from Wisconsin. That left only me.

Margaret laughed, snapping me out of my reverie. "Oh, yes. Esme is going to run off with a magician!"

Frank smiled softly. "That sounds almost as ridiculous as running off with a doctor." Their eyes met once again, and as I watched them, both looking so content, so… whole, just to be staring into each other eyes, I felt as though I were intruding. I dropped my gaze and wandered off, letting the rose fall to the ground.

It would be many minutes before they came to find me.

* * *

I sighed and rolled over restlessly. I stared at the shadows on my walls, all of them so familiar I could trace them all with my eyes closed. It was the night before Margaret's wedding, and I had been lying awake all night.

_This is absurd,_ I thought to myself, _the bride should be the one who can't sleep, not the bridesmaid!_

I growled in frustration and kicked the covers off. I immediately regretted my aggression towards my blanket as the chilled air seeped in. I pulled the covers up to my chin and held my eyes closed.

I saw the same thing I had seen every time I had closed my eyes since the fair. Margaret and Frank. Frank, looking at Margaret the way someone had once looked at me. His words rang in my head continuously, driving me to the brink of insanity. _"That sounds almost as ridiculous as running off with a doctor."_ Was I ridiculous to have wanted to run off with a doctor? I was only sixteen, after all. So impressionable. So naïve.

Then, another vision spread before my closed eyes. Yellow hair framing a pale face. Such fair skin. Golden eyes that held such kindness and strength and warmth and depth that the sight of them made every inch of me ache. A smile that was just for me, that said that I was safe and loved.

I let out a sob. I had to close my eyes to the picture, but my eyes were already closed. It was burnt into the inside of my eyelids, and that's exactly what it did. It burned.

Finally breaking out of the trance I was in, I rolled over and muffled my screams against my pillow as new voices, so familiar to me even five years later, filled my ears.

"_Cold hands, warm heart."_

"_I don't necessarily think that's true."_

"_Why not?"_

"_Well, your hands are very warm, my dear."_

If I was ridiculous then, I even more so now. Because I was twenty-one years old, and I would give my life to run off with a doctor.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, what did you think? Were you guys too, too thrown off by the five-year leap? I was debating whether or not to do that, but I ultimately decided for the leap, because I just couldn't think of an un-boring way to fill up five years of what is essentially Esme trying desperately to forget about Carlisle. Also: I know it's not as long as the last few chapters have been, but I wanted to get _something _up on here, because it's been over a week. Actually, this and the next chapter were originally one big, honking chapter, but then I _really_ wanted to have this be an end-of-chapter and it will take me another little while to finish up what is now Chapter Eight. So, even though this was basically a filler chapter, I hope it'll do until I can get back to the grub. :-)


	8. The Wedding

**Author's Note: **Well! Here it is (finally)! It took a while to get out, but it's nearly as long as Chapter Four! Anyhoo, thanks to **dick and dunn, SockShopping, NellieGURL, cakeaddict61, Vio Lenz, **and **miss.dramatikkkk** for reviewing! I know last chapter was a shortie, but, as I mentioned, this one is pretty lengthy, so hopefully it makes up for it!

**Disclaimer:** Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt, and Charles Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer and her publishers. Margaret Platt-Bennington, Samuel and Miriam Platt, Frank Bennington, Mrs. Malcolm, Betsy, Johnny, Robert Benjamin Baker, Franklin Platt and Mrs. Platt, whom I still haven't named, and William and Hester Evenson all belong to me, although technically I stole Margaret's looks from a friend of mine. ;-)

On with the show!

**8.** **The Wedding**

"You look lovely, dear, simply lovely."

"Thank you so much."

"Why, I remember when your mother wore that dress back in 1892…"

"I'm sure you do."

Margaret strolled over to me as quickly as possible, trying to inconspicuously dodge her well wishers. I smiled at her as she rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe this. Did we invite the whole town, or something?"

"I have a feeling it won't matter in a couple of seconds," I said, looking over her shoulder.

Frank Bennington came up behind Margaret and placed his hands gently on her shoulders, pressing his cheek to hers. Margaret gasped softly and closed her eyes.

The moment was short lived, though. Frank pulled back and turned her to face him.

"Well," he said, clearly struggling for polite words. "It, erm, seems as though you live in a very… supportive town."

"Ugh!" cried Margaret, flinging her hands up. "I honestly don't think that New York City has this many people! Where did they all come from?"

Frank leaned in and leered at her. "From outer space, of course."

We all laughed. That was why Margaret could be happy with him. He was perfect for her: he was a gentleman and always knew what to say, but he shared her wicked sense of humor.

There was music playing in the background, and Frank looked up as a new song began.

"Come, Maggie, they're playing our song."

"We have a song?" Margaret said sarcastically, trying to hide her pleasure at being called a pet name.

Frank paused. "…Yes. And this is it." He took her hand and dragged her off to the dance floor, but not before pausing, bowing ceremoniously, and saying, "Please excuse us, fair lady."

"Good afternoon, Esme."

I looked around. Mrs. Malcolm, the doctor's wife, was smiling at me." I smiled back.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Malcolm."

She gestured to the dancing couple who had just left me. "She looks beautiful, doesn't she?"

"Oh, yes," I fervently agreed. Margaret certainly did look beautiful. She had always been exceptionally pretty, but somewhere between sixteen and twenty-one Margaret had blossomed into a swan. She grew into her willowy frame, filling it out nicely, and her dark brown hair, once wild and simply everywhere, had tamed into slick, beautiful curls that cascaded down her back. With her full lips and her almond-shaped eyes, all of her features now suited her perfectly.

"And Mr. Bennington is a mighty handsome young man," Mrs. Malcolm added, a twinkle in her eye.

I laughed lightly. "Yes, he most certainly is."

"Now, Esme, when are _you_ going to settle down?" she asked, tapping me on the shoulder.

Completely caught off guard, I stuttered, "Uh… I… I'm… not exactly sure."

"Well, get a move on, child. There are plenty of eligible bachelors who are waiting for just a girl like you."

I laughed nervously.

"And what are you waiting for? You've finished school. It's only the next natural step for a pretty young thing like you."

I couldn't answer. What did she expect me to say? _"Yes, you're exactly right. Is there anyone you know who can do the job?"_? I was as polite as I could be, and she left shortly thereafter.

I sighed and sank down into a chair, watching the couples dancing. There were several children there, dancing joyously to every song. I smiled. They looked to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. I could name each one of them. Betsy, Johnny, and Robert Benjamin Baker. I chuckled slightly to myself at the last name. Poor child; his parents insisted on addressing him only by his full name, and everyone else automatically followed suit. If anyone needed a nickname, it was Robert Benjamin Baker.

"Excuse me."

The voice startled me, and I jumped nearly all the way out of my seat. I looked up.

"I beg your pardon," Charles Evenson smiled a thin smile.

"It's nothing at all," I breathed, clutching at my chest all the same.

Charles extended a hand out to me. "May I have this dance, Miss Platt?"

I stared at him, nonplussed. "Yes, of course," I answered automatically, accepting his hand.

He led me out to the outskirts of where the others were dancing and placed his other hand on my back.

We swayed gently to the music. Charles danced very well. I was completely bewildered by him. Why had he asked me to dance? What brought that on? The most emotion Charles had ever shown towards me was fury when Margaret and I sneaked away to Columbus that night. Every time he had been over to the house with his family or I had seen him around town for the next three months, he had glowered at me and not spoken. After that, he had gone back to his old ways. He didn't scowl at me anymore, but he still never spoke, and I only met his gaze when I would look up to see him staring at me intently. His eyes would bore into mine for a few seconds before I had to drop my eyes.

I mustered up my courage and looked up at him. Just as expected, his black eyes watched me intently. I was determined not to look away this time, and I stared back. We danced like that, not smiling, not speaking, just watching each other. Charles seemed to grow frustrated with my tenacity, and a frown planted itself on his face. Finally, he tightened his grip around my waste and spun me around abruptly. The sun shone into my eyes, momentarily blinding me. I quickly lowered my head. My eyes smarted and watered painfully and my first instinct was to massage the pain away, but Charles kept a tight grip on my right hand, and he was too tall for me to make any use of my left hand, resting high on his shoulder.

Mercifully, the music ended just then, and I pulled away from him, yanking my gloves off and rubbing my eyes vigorously.

"Why, Esme, what's wrong?" I looked up at the sound of my mother's voice, though I was still only able to squint. Mother was walking towards the two of us quickly, looking concerned.

Charles chuckled. "Oh, I'm afraid I'm a little tall for her, and the sun got in her eyes."

My head whirled around to stare at him. His entire countenance was completely different from that of a moment ago. He was relaxed and smiling graciously, his own eyes crinkled with a sympathetic humor. My mother, too, relaxed into a smile.

"Oh, poor dear." She touched me gently on the shoulder. "I'm exactly the same way when I dance with Mr. Platt."

"Really?" Charles seemed genuinely interested in this tidbit. "Well, I suppose that must be where dear Esme gets her grace. If you are at all similar you must dance like an angel."

"Why, Charles! What a compliment; you're too kind."

I must have looked like a complete imbecile: my head turned back and forth between my Mother and whatever it was that had possessed Charles in the past minute and a half, astonished at this exchange that was taking place – this exchange which included compliments, from Charles, for me.

Charles suddenly looked over my mother's shoulder.

"Oh, I do believe my mother is beckoning to me. Please excuse me." He smiled and bowed to me and then strode off quickly in the direction of his mother, who was waving inanely at us. My mother turned back to me, positively beaming.

"He is _such_ a gentleman, Esme, don't you think? It's a pity the Evensons didn't have more children – they certainly know how to raise them and raise them well!"

She touched my cheek with her gloved hand and then excused herself, leaving me standing rooted to the floor, completely flabbergasted.

* * *

I sat on Margaret's bed, watching her pack. We both sniffled occasionally. She and Frank had just returned from their honeymoon three days ago, and she had broken the news to me yesterday.

She was moving. Margaret was leaving Ohio and going to live in Milwaukee with Frank. The wedding had been timed in such a way that Frank's internship would be finished shortly beforehand, and that they would be free to leave town.

A mixture of emotions was running rampant within me. I felt angry with Margaret for not telling me sooner, but I also felt very foolish. _How could you not have known? _I berated myself, _What did you think, that she was marrying him just to _marry_ him, and that she was going to stay here?_

Above all, though, I was absolutely devastated.

Upon finding out, I had lost my temper with Margaret. I had set up such a ruckus that her mother had come running, thinking a wild animal had somehow gotten in. The situation climaxed with my making very petty, very untrue remarks – which, in turn, culminated in Margaret slapping me across the face. That brought both of us to our senses, and we both lay across her bed, holding each other and crying.

This morning I had woken up with an extreme sinus headache and an equal dose of guilt. I quickly threw together a batch of cookies and a pitcher of lemonade and brought them to Margaret's house. We spent the morning together the way we had done ever since we were children. We ate and we chatted and we laughed and we pretended that nothing was wrong, that nothing was happening, and that nothing would ever change.

Then Uncle Franklin knocked and entered Margaret's room to tell her that, if she and Frank wanted to catch the six o'clock train, she had better get a move on and finish packing her things.

All things considered, I thought that I behaved myself very well. I didn't cry, I didn't sulk, and I even helped Margaret pack, as if to show her that I wasn't upset that she was leaving – indeed, that I was so _un_-upset that I could even assist her to leave me alone sooner.

But nothing could prepare me for the moment when her last trunk snapped shut. My breath caught in my chest, and I had to turn away and pretend to examine her bookshelf in order to catch my breath.

There was a deafening silence, and I finally couldn't take it anymore. I turned back around to find her staring at me, her arms hanging, defeated, by her sides.

She seemed to compose herself before she whispered, "What will you do?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly, and my voice broke. My entire body heaved as I turned away again and clamped a handkerchief to my mouth. I heard Margaret breathing raggedly from behind me.

I dried my eyes, thankful that it was only a small spell, and faced her once more. "Maybe I'll become a teacher."

Margaret nodded vigorously. "You've always loved little children."

I forced a thin smile. "Yes. And maybe… well, maybe I'll see a bit of the world for myself, as well. Go west."

There was a silence again as our forced conversation fizzled and died. Margaret's eyes filled up.

"Esme-"

We were both startled by the knock at the door.

"Come in," Margaret called.

The door opened and Frank stepped in. He quickly picked up on the atmosphere in the room, and looked at the two of us regretfully.

"Maggie… it's getting to be time."

Margaret held my eyes for another moment, then looked over her shoulder at Frank. "Yes, I'm all packed," she said with a commendable cheerfulness.

Frank and Uncle Franklin moved all of Margaret's things outside and into the carriage they were borrowing.

My parents had come over to see the couple off, and they were the first to say goodbye to Margaret. Then came her mother, whose eyes were streaming, but still held happiness for her daughter and son-in-law. Uncle Franklin embraced his daughter and then clapped Frank on the shoulder.

"Well, Margaret, the way I see it, there's no reason for this to be a day of mourning. You've got yourself a fine husband who's going to make you happy for the rest of your days. And I know for a fact that he's a good man. Besides, where can you go wrong with a name like Frank, I ask you?"

Uncle Frank's small speech brought a burst of laughter from our small, somber group. It offered me enough of a reprieve from the grief that threatened to engulf me that I could wish Frank farewell and hug and kiss Margaret goodbye without tears.

And that was all I really could ask for at that moment as I watched Frank and Margaret wave as they set off down the road, that dusty lane which she and I had so often raced each other down, and which might never be marked by her footprints again.

* * *

For many weeks I was marked by a deep depression. I had never felt like this, not even the other time. The other time had been fiery and turbulent. It had awakened in me emotions and passions that I hadn't known I possessed. This time was much calmer, but, in a way, much worse. Nothing seemed to mean the same to me. Situations that I normally would have secretly stored away to tell Margaret about were no longer interesting. I barely even marked the time passing, or the events therein. Had I given them a spare thought, I might have noticed that the Evensons came calling more often than was ordinary. But my thoughts were elsewhere, in a state of inactivity, which abruptly came to an end one afternoon, when I received a letter from Margaret.

My mother called me down to the kitchen where she was preparing supper for yet another visit from the Evensons. I headed for the kitchen, and when I arrived (via the back staircase, which my mother didn't comment on) and saw that there was a letter addressed to me from Mrs. Francis Bennington, I got the first shock to my system in almost a month.

I raced upstairs to read it, tearing it open in a frenzy. It read:

_Dear Esme,_

_Frank and I have been in Milwaukee for a little more than two weeks now, and it's absolutely wonderful. Can you believe that neither of us has ever been out of state before? It's amazing to see something that isn't surrounded by wheat!_

_Frank's parents are lovely people, and his father, who knows the land quite well, has helped us to find a beautiful little house by a stream. I know you would love it – you always go on so about architectural things, and the aesthetics of buildings. The minute I first saw it, I could almost hear you whispering excitedly in my ear, "Look at that wrap-around porch! It is so complemented by the oak trees!" The whole time Frank and I were touring the place it's as if you're there with me: "What a cozy room! Normally, I'd say it was a little crowded, but the way the light comes in those windows – so well-placed, by the way – it just makes it seem to welcoming!" I miss you so much, dearest._

_Do you miss me? It's strange: I'm so terribly happy to be with Frank, but I feel as if something has been torn out of me. _

_But Esme, you must listen to me, because I know what you're doing. You're letting yourself be swallowed by your pain, and it's taking up every aspect of your life. You can't let that happen, Esme. You must put things in perspective: I haven't died. We haven't had a falling out. We're simply separated. I know that there's nothing simple about absence, but it's not like you're never going to see me again. What sort of suspicions are you entertaining? I can just see through your mind, even though I can't see your face. You're under the impression that I'm never going to come back to Ohio again, aren't you? You think that because I'm married now I'm going to start a new life and completely discard my past._

_Aren't I correct? I thought so. Esme, you know this is nonsense. Deep within you, you know that it won't be long before we see each other again. Wisconsin may be far away, but you're still near to me. And it's not like we live on the moon, now!_

_Well, I'd better go. We're at Frank's parents' house and his mother is teaching me how to cook. Can you imagine? Me, cooking! I tell you, if my mother couldn't manage it over nearly twenty-two years, then I really don't think that Mrs. Bennington stands a chance! That's funny. I'm Mrs. Bennington now, too._

_Well, anyway, I truly hope that this letter finds you well and leaves you better. You must promise me that you'll write. I will see you sometime, I promise._

_Love Always,_

_Margaret_

_Postscript: When did you receive this letter? The postman I gave it to didn't really seem to be all there, if you get my meaning._

I folded up the letter, and let it fall into my lap. She was right. She was right, as she had always managed to be right. I was letting my sorrow override everything else in my life. And I was being foolish. Of course we were going to see each other again! What _was_ I thinking? I could feel my mood lifting as every second passed. I jumped to my feet and hastily started pulling open drawers in my writing desk, looking for stationary. I had just sat down and put pen to paper when I heard the doorbell.

I jumped, splotching ink all over my clean sheet of paper. I shook my head. I wasn't normally skittish; I supposed that Margaret's letter must have reawakened my senses.

I heard my mother greeting the Evensons, so I set aside my letter-to-be for another time.

I walked down the hallway towards the main staircase, and immediately upon coming into sight of the foyer, I felt Charles' eyes upon me. I did my best to smile, but I quickly became aware of the strange looks that I was receiving from everyone, Charles included.

"Good evening," I said quietly, still rather nonplussed.

For once, Mrs. Evenson seemed lost for words. "Er, well, good evening, dear."

My father strolled into the room, took one look at me, and his eyes widened considerably.

"Good Lord, Esme! What have you done to yourself this time?!"

"What is it?" I asked, looking down at myself critically.

It was then that I noticed it. The front of my light blue dress was completely covered in black ink. I gasped in horror. I then sneaked a humiliated glance at our guests, who all looked very amused by this point.

Mr. Evenson chuckled. "Tough day at the office, Esme?"

All I could do was stand there and gape. My mother, after reviving from the initial shock, finally came to my rescue.

"Esme, darling, why don't you go and find something more… suitable? We'll all just go on ahead of you, all right?"

I nodded mutely. Mother began ushering everyone into the dining room, and as soon as they were gone, I turned and fled up to my room.

I could feel my whole face burning with embarrassment. I quickly disrobed and threw on another dress, in my paranoia checking and rechecking it for stains or tears. I patted my hair down and took a few deep breaths. My eyes wandered over to my writing desk and landed upon Margaret's letter. I could just see her face. Suddenly, and without warning, I burst out laughing. I hadn't laughed like this since before Margaret got married. I only laughed this much when I was with her, and relating to her some travesty that had seemed like the end of the world at the time, and which turned into a hilarious story whenever we were together.

It took me a few minutes to collect myself. I breathed heavily, wiping the tears of mirth from my cheeks. I hadn't felt this good in a long time. I composed myself and headed for the dining room.

When I took my seat next to Charles in the dining room, I was met with chuckles from Mr. and Mrs. Evenson, a gracious smile from my mother, and a stern glance from my father. Charles leaned over towards me and inclined his head.

"Writing accident? Perhaps a nasty run-in with a squid?"

I looked up. He was smiling wryly.

I blushed and looked down at my plate… and didn't say a word all through supper.

* * *

Supper was finished and, instead of facing Mrs. Evenson and her condescending remarks about me, I had volunteered to clean up. From the sounds of things in the other rooms, the evening was winding down. I still didn't feel like joining my mother and Mrs. Evenson after finishing cleaning the dishes, so I meandered about the ground floor, and I was just toying with the idea of retreating to my room when the door to the library opened. I started and some childish part of me made me dart into a corner, concealing myself from view. Mr. Evenson appeared in the doorway.

"Charles, I'm going to go prepare the horses. Why don't you finish up and round up your mother?"

"Yes, father," sounded from within.

The door closed and Mr. Evenson strode out the front door. However, instead of going for his mother, Charles continued speaking with my father. I could hear only murmurs, and a sudden wave of insurmountable curiosity washed over me. I crept closer to the doorway. I could hear the voices more clearly now. My father sounded slightly surprised and confused, as though Charles had said something he hadn't been expecting. Charles sounded quite serious, which was usual, and earnest, which wasn't quite so usual. My father spoke.

"Well, Charles, I've got to tell you, she can be a handful at times. I just don't know where she gets it. I would have thought that as she got older … but still…"

Charles chuckled. "She's feisty, all right. That much is obvious. But… there are ways of changing that." There was a slight pause.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, women can change, too."

"Charles, what are you saying?" There was a muffled squeaking noise, as though someone had just leaned forward in his chair. When Charles spoke, it was deliberately, as though he were trying to get a point across.

"Mr. Platt, I firmly believe that… well… _I_ could make a lady out of Esme."

My stomach plummeted. They were talking about me? My head was swimming; my brain was in a haze, and my father sounded the same as I felt when he said, "Charles? Are you saying…?"

There was another pause, and when I heard Charles' words, I slid down the wall and crumpled in a heap on the floor.

"Mr. Platt, I am asking for your daughter's hand in marriage."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, there we are! What did you think? Did it make up for the long wait (even though technically the long wait was for Chapter 7, but remember that those two puppies used to be one big hound dog)? Thankies for reading!


	9. The Decision

**Author's Note: **Wow! You guys are amazing! I'm not even 10 chapters in and I'm only one away from 50 reviews::tear:: You make me feel special. 3 -- a heart. Anyway, now that I'm done being all _emotional_ ::shudders:: thanks to **dick and dunn, remala, Seul Lune, Ame Warashi, NellieGURL, Runs-with-vampires, miss.dramatikkkk, SockShopping, cakeaddict61, **and **irockupurple **for reviewing! You're the greatest, so without furthur ado (unless you count the Disclaimer, of course), I'll stop jabbering and let you get on to the next chapter!

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt, Charles Evenson, and Carlisle Cullen all belong to Stephenie Meyer and her lucky, lucky publishers. Mr. and Mrs. Evenson, Mr. and Mrs. Platt, and Mr. Frank and Mrs. Margaret Bennington all belong to me. (I have an eye out for any spare Edwards going around, though). ;-)

**9. The Decision**

Weeks passed. The Evensons visited regularly, now. They were here at least once a week, and I found myself, not quite the center of attention (Mrs. Evenson liked to save that spot for herself), but uncomfortably close. I was being drawn into conversation, not just with Mr. and Mrs. Evenson, but with Charles himself. This was the first interest he had ever seemed to show in me, with the exception of his asking me to dance at Margaret's wedding. I kept waiting for my father to tell me what had transpired between himself and Charles, but I was consistently disappointed. In fact, no one said anything about it to me, but it was all too clear that they all knew. The Evensons looked at me with pride, as though I was their own daughter, and my mother smiled imperceptibly whenever she saw Charles and me together. I was growing very frustrated, and I was beginning to wonder just how long I was supposed to be in the dark before someone would decide to enlighten me. Perhaps someone would be kind enough to write me a letter when I was on my honeymoon with Charles and fill me in. Finally, one afternoon, my father asked me to sit down with him in the library.

"Esme," he began, observing me seriously. "You may have noticed that the Evensons' visits have become more frequent, recently."

I nodded. "Yes, father."

My father sighed, and was silent for a moment. Finally, it seemed like he decided to quit beating around the bushes.

"Esme, you're getting older – why, you're almost twenty-two years old! And I believe, and your mother agrees, well… that it's time you decided what to do with your life."

I simply nodded again.

I think that my father must have been expecting a different response, because he sounded rather awkward when he posed his next question.

"Have you… given any thoughts as to how you intend to… go about that? That is, how you want to spend your life?"

_Not with Charles Evenson,_ my mind suddenly intoned. I was startled, but it was very obvious. I didn't want to spend my life with Charles. I couldn't put my finger on why, exactly, but I just knew that I didn't want him. And if that were so, whom _did_ I want?

_You know perfectly well _whom_ you want,_ my mind said nastily. _That's no longer an option, though._ My father was waiting for an answer just as anxiously as I was. Would life with Charles really be all that bad? I couldn't imagine that it would be. And he _was_ someone to love. Perhaps he loved me. I so wanted someone to love me. It must positively ache to look into someone's eyes and see that they couldn't possibly go on without you at their side. It certainly ached to be a witness to that kind of love, when it was going on between your best friend and her fiancée.

But did I necessarily have to be with Charles? Was there nothing else I wanted to do than to get married and have children? Children. I suddenly saw before my eyes the three children at the wedding. I knew them all very well. I often acted as nursemaid with friends and relatives' children. I absolutely adored children. I always had – everything about them exuded life and hope and promise. I looked up at my father.

"I want to be a teacher."

If my father was surprised with my last response, this one completely caught him off guard.

"I'm sorry?"

"I- I've been thinking… for awhile, of becoming a teacher."

"Esme, there's already a perfectly good schoolteacher in town."

"Well, perhaps I could find some other place to teach. Maybe even out west somewhere. I would love to travel. I'm sure I could find a position somewhere else… perhaps… Chicago, or somewhere. And if things don't work out there… well, there should be plenty of schools in California." If "things" didn't work out in Chicago, I would want to get as far away as humanly possible.

My father stared at me incredulously. "Out west?" he stammered. "_California?_ Have you lost your mind, child? You – a young, unmarried woman – out west? _Alone? _Esme, be reasonable!"

I hadn't exactly expected him to be thrilled, but I hadn't foreseen him reacting this badly. It wasn't as though I didn't know how to take care of myself. I was an adult, now, and plenty of people lived out west.

"I am being reasonable, father. I've thought this through." Not exactly. "I've known that I want to be a teacher for a while, now." Almost five minutes. "I even have an idea of where I'd like to live." Sure I did. I just might need to search every hospital in Illinois before I could put my finger on it.

My father sighed. "Esme, you're still young. You have fantasies about how life will be when you have no experience with which to corroborate them. Do you honestly believe that you can sustain yourself without a man to help you? Where in your upbringing did we give you the idea that it was proper or even acceptable for a woman to move out west _by herself_ and start a life among _complete and utter strangers_?"

"I'm not a heathen," I snapped before I could stop myself.

"Esme!" He was beginning to become irate. His voice had raised slightly and I knew that, if I didn't tread carefully, we would both become very angry with each other. I made sure to lower my voice and speak calmly.

"Father," I murmured, "I want this. I love children. I want to be around them."

Father hesitated. "There are other ways of being around children, Esme."

My eyes widened, but I remained silent. I knew what my father was going to say long before he said it. I had known before he had even called me into the room. I had known what his next words would be since the night I sat on the floor listening to him finalize details with my future husband without even talking to me about it. There I had been, straining to hear them through the cracks in the door while they sat comfortably, mapping out the wedding and his future with me. Not _our_ future - _his_ future. With me, the afterthought.

So I was quiet, because the battle was already long lost. All I could do was focus all of the energy that I had previously fought with on not letting any tears escape when he said, "Charles Evenson has asked for your hand, and I think it would be very wise of you to accept."

* * *

_Dear Margaret,_

_How are you? How are things going with Frank? The picture that you sent me of your house is hanging on my wall. It is absolutely beautiful! The architectural design is really quite remarkable. I can just see you rocking in a rocking chair on that lovely, shaded porch while your children play at your feet._

_Margaret, I need to ask your advice. Charles Evenson has asked me to marry him. My father and mother are both urging me to accept. I do not know what to do. I have gotten to speak with him more often these past few months, and he seems to be charming enough, but I still do not really know him. Can I really base my entire future on something so uncertain? Should I marry someone whom I do not love? I need you, Margaret. I need you to tell me what I should do._

_I hope this letter finds you well and leaves you better._

_Love Always,_

_Esme_

* * *

_Dearest Esme,_

_Things are absolutely wonderful here. I am glad you like the house. And it's funny you should mention children playing at my feet… I am going to be a mother! Frank and I are so excited. We have a room all set up. It's yellow, because we obviously do not know what the baby's gender is going to be (hope for a girl for me, will you?), and Frank's father is building us a crib._

_Charles Evenson proposed to you? Well, I suppose that I should not be surprised; he has always behaved differently around you from the way he behaves around everyone else. Esme, you're an adult, now, and I obviously cannot tell you what to do. All I can do is to give you my advice, as difficult as it may be to accept._

_Esme, I think that you should say yes to Charles. Now, please understand that I am not saying this because I think that you are wrong, and that he is your soulmate in disguise. I believe that you should marry him because, if you do not, you may never get over Dr. Cullen. I know how sad this must make you, and I only wish that I could put my arms around you and be near to you, but you have to let him go. There is next to no chance that you will ever see him again, and I do not want to see you spend your life chasing after a phantom. You are growing older, Esme, and, although we both know how capable of being independent you are, neither of us wants you to be alone forever. Charles can offer you stability, and he must love you is he has asked for your hand. At least this way, you can still have love in your life, even if it is not the love that you imagined._

_As always, I hope this letter finds you well and leaves you better._

_Love Always,_

_Margaret_

I re-folded the letter, and set it gently down. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my decision sink in. I tried to put it off for as long as possible, imagining Margaret as a mother, envisioning their house full of children, but my circumstances were irrepressibly forced to the forefront of my mind.

I felt a heavy layer of sadness settle on me. She was right. I was never going to see Carlisle again, and the sooner I accepted that, and moved on with my life, the better I would be. Perhaps my indifference to Charles was simply backlash to the inevitable truth of this fact. Charles _could_ love me, I told myself stubbornly. And I so wanted to love someone real. I wanted to love someone I could hold onto, someone I wouldn't have to imagine was there next to me when the nights were cold, when I slid in between my chilled sheets and at first touch they felt almost like his hands. Certainly if I was this capable of loving a complete stranger whom I had only seen once in my entire life, I could love Charles just as well. It would just take some time to get used to his very warm hands and his very cold eyes.

My jaw set firmly, I strode from my room, marched across the hallway, down the front staircase, and went to find my parents.

I found them sitting across from each other in front of the fireplace, my mother knitting, and my father reading and smoking his pipe. They were a perfect picture. Perhaps in twenty years that image would be Charles and myself. I cleared my throat, and they both looked up. I raised my chin high.

"Margaret's going to have a baby, and I have decided to marry Charles Evenson."

Then, I turned on my heel and strode from the room.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So? You know, the usual: did you guys like it? And more importantly: what should Margaret name the baby??


	10. The Reception

**Author's Note: **Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln! I am so sorry it's taken me so long to update! This probably isn't the first (or the last) time you've heard this, but things have been really crazy around here, not the least of which is my show. The Music Man opens tonight, and I've been Pick-a-Little-ing myself into a stupor! I get a really great hat, though. ;-)

Thanks to **NellieGURL, erised-i, irockupurple, dick and dunn, SockShopping, Deliriously Withdrawn, miss.dramatikkkk, cakeaddict61, **and **Ame Warashi** for reviewing! I really appreciated all of your suggestions for names, and, as you'll see, I've voted with the majority!

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt-Evenson, Charles Evenson, and Carlisle Cullen all belong to the wonderful Stephenie Meyer, who is very soon going to grace us with Eclipse, at which point this whole story will likely become seriously AU. :-) Margaret Bennington, Frank Bennington, Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Platt, Samuel Platt, Isabella Bennington, and Robert Benjamin Baker all belong to me. President Woodrow Wilson belongs to... posterity, I guess?

**10. The Reception**

I sighed and fiddled with my dress, pulling here, fluffing there. "Are you _sure_ it looks all right?" I asked for the thousandth time, nibbling my lip.

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Esme, you look _fine._ You look more than fine! You look positively gorgeous."

I tried to calm myself with steady breaths. "I don't know. Do you think I should have gone with an ivory instead of full white?"

"_No._ And even if I did, it's a little late now, isn't it?" She raised an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling. "Why? Do you have… _call_ to wear off-white, Esme?"

My eyes widened. My reflection in the full-length mirror glanced at her reflection. "Margaret!" As always, I failed to sound appropriately reproachful and broke up laughing.

Margaret grinned. "Here, let's see what it looks like with the veil on." She went and retrieved my long, white veil from a table and then draped it delicately over my head.

I looked up at the sound of the clock chiming from downstairs. "We had better hurry up. Everyone is waiting," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

Margaret stepped back. "You know you really do look quite stunning, Esme."

I turned to her. "You don't look so bad, yourself," I said. Margaret had only given birth to her daughter a month ago, and already she was almost back to her original figure.

I reached for my bouquet and clutched it to my chest, observing my reflection. I looked pale and weak in the mirror. "Were you this scared before your wedding?" I whispered.

Margaret turned away to look out the window. "Of course I was," she said. I could tell she was lying. Why should she have been nervous?

There was a moment of awkward silence, and I found myself getting more and more nervous.

I therefore nearly had a heart attack when Margaret turned back and let out a gasp.

"What is it?!" I demanded.

"Esme! Oh, Esme! Your… oh, it's too awful! Your… your dress."

I panicked. "What's the matter with it?" I nearly screamed.

"Oh, its got soot all over it! You must have walked too close to the fireplace!"

"No!" I wheeled around on the spot, desperately trying to get a look at the damage.

"No, Esme, stop! Now it's ripping!"

I froze. I turned to look at her. She was standing, leaning casually as you please against my windowsill, and enjoying herself far too much.

"You… you…" I struggled for some cutting remark that would really get her. "You are a… not… nice… person!"

"Hey, that's my wife you're talking to."

Margaret and I both pivoted towards the door. Frank was poking his head in, grinning.

"I hate to interrupt this sacred feminine ritual, but Charles is getting a little antsy downstairs, Esme."

I nodded. "Thank you, Frank. We'll be right down."

He smiled once more and turned to go. Before he was out of earshot, I thought I heard him mutter, "Not to mention his neurotic mother…"

Silence fell over the room. Margaret and I traded a look.

"Are you sure I'm doing the right thing?" I whispered weakly.

Margaret looked stumped. It really wasn't a fair question to ask her. I knew that I was being immature, and that I was fully capable of making my own decisions. Ultimately, Margaret knew that, too.

Which is why I suppose she shrugged nonchalantly and said, "Well, it'd be a shame to waste all that cake."

I suppressed a grin and instead struck a pensive pose. "You're right. I didn't think of that."

Margaret strode over to the door and opened it wide. With a sweeping gesture of the arm, she said, "Shall we?"

I looked into her eyes and found strength. Bravely imitating her bravado, I matched her step and linked my arm with hers. "Let's go to a wedding."

* * *

I stood in a daze, numbly shaking hands with people and trying to receive compliments graciously as I mulled over the events of the afternoon. It occurred to me that Margaret had been in this situation not too long ago. Except that, when she had been at her wedding reception, Frank had been by her side, leaning down and joking to her whenever he had a free moment. Charles, however, completely ignored me. He handled the hordes of "spectators," as Margaret had referred to them, with much more grace than I did, smiling warmly and conversing easily with the women, shaking hands firmly and talking about politics with the men, but he never once even looked down at me to see how I was getting on. 

Margaret's parents were some of the last people to speak to us. Mrs. Platt leaned heavily on her husband, and looked very tired. I felt an overwhelming feeling of pity sweep over me. Margaret's mother hadn't been well for the past few months. The news had reached us that she had been suffering from terrible headaches, and had to stay home most of the time. She became very weak, and was unable to leave her bed on some days. My mother and I began helping them around the house, cleaning and bringing over baked goods. Sometimes I would stay the entire day, doing the laundry and baking meals that Mrs. Platt barely even touched. She now appeared deathly pale and very emaciated. I very gently took her bony hand in mine and thanked her profusely for coming to the wedding.

"Oh, you're very welcome, Esme, darling. I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world. Not the whole world," she whispered, trying to focus her eyes on me.

She looked up at Charles. "And you look very handsome, Mr. Evenson. You'll take care of our Esme, won't you?"

Charles nodded stiffly. "Of course I will, Mrs. Platt."

I smiled at Mr. Platt and he squeezed my hand tightly between both of his own. The look in his eyes told me that I didn't need to put anything into words, and then he led his wife to a seat.

When the time came when the guests had finally all had their say, Charles turned to me and offered his hand. I accepted it and walked onto the dance floor with him, feeling as though it were only yesterday when I had first danced with him. No conversation passed between the two of us the entire time that we danced. He stared out over my head at the other couples while I studied the pale pink rose in his breast pocket and reminisced about the ceremony.

The whole morning had passed in a blur for me. Rather than being able to recall the words that had been spoken or the way the church had looked, specific emotions made moments stand out for me in a montage of flashes. Margaret and I, walking down the stairs together while I struggled with nostalgia and nervousness. The wave of panic I felt when the doors of the chapel opened and I saw the entire town in the pews, with Charles waiting at the end of the aisle. The jarring fear that I had felt in the pit of my stomach when I momentarily forgot what to say after the words, "Until death do you part." These stood out more than anything as Charles and I danced.

Then, after we had been dancing for an indeterminate amount of time, Charles murmured some excuse, pulled out of my grip, and walked off.

I made my way over to a seat and collapsed into it, fanning myself with my hand. Margaret spotted me and made her way over, cradling her daughter in her arms. She sat down next to me, grinning.

"Well, Charles tires quickly of dancing."

I smiled wryly. "I guess so."

"Frank's over there with them now," she said, nodding her head in the direction of a group of men, which included my father, Mr. Evenson, Charles, and, indeed, Frank. She gave me an exasperated look. "They're discussing the war."

I sighed. "Of course." My father spoke of little else than the war going on in Europe. He and his friends had been staunchly opposed to our going to war at all, and were quite verbal about it. When the Lusitania sank, however, they changed their tune considerably. America had been at war against Germany for four months, now, and my father lost no opportunity to discuss the situation.

"Men," said Margaret mutinously. "Why is it that they all seem to think that killing people will solve anything?" She rocked her daughter lovingly against her chest, crooning to her softly.

I decided to change the subject.

"She's getting quite a head of hair on her," I commented, reaching over to stroke the baby's down-soft hair.

Margaret beamed. "Oh, yes. It doesn't look curly, either. I hope that she doesn't have to suffer through curls."

I shook my head, smiling. Margaret had always complained about her curls, but I had always been secretly envious of them. I crinkled my brow in sudden thought.

"What made you name her what you did? It's a rather odd name – I've not heard it before."

Margaret smiled. "Frank had a nursemaid when he was younger who came from Spain. He said that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, except for me." She smiled crookedly at me. "He said that she was calm and soft-spoken, and had a gorgeous singing voice. He had been looking forward to introducing our child to Isabella, but she died shortly before our baby was born. Frank was quite sad – he had really looked up to her – so I suggested that we name the baby after her."

I smiled back. "I think it's a lovely name." Isabella wrapped her entire hand around my index finger, and I giggled uncontrollably as she stuck my knuckle in her mouth and sucked on it.

"So, do you and Charles have any idea of where you might like to live?" Margaret asked.

I nodded my head. "Charles has already found us a house. He wants to stay here and open up a law firm."

Margaret scoffed. "Oh, yes. In order to deal with our burgeoning crime rate."

I feigned seriousness. "Indeed. Why, did you hear about that incident just the other day? Robert Benjamin Baker stole a pie right off of his aunt's window sill!" I shook my head grimly. "Shocking, just shocking."

Margaret nodded emphatically. "I should say. The young hooligan!"

"Are you talking about me behind my back, ladies?" Frank had just strolled up alongside Charles.

Margaret grinned at Frank's antics. "Frank, you have impeccable timing," I said. "Your wife and I were just discussing the case of the missing cherry pie when you walked up."

"Ah," said Frank, immediately joining in. "Yes, they'll be taking that one to the Supreme Court. But hopefully, with a name like… what is it? Bobby Benjamin… Bud Barker something? Well, hopefully he'll be able to plead insanity."

Margaret nodded once more. "It still is a shame, though. So young. So young…. Well, at least we have the guarantee of an excellent law firm opening up."

Charles must have sensed that we were poking fun at him, and I saw his brow cloud up.

"I think you'll find that there is much need for a law firm here in town. We lawyers don't _just_ work with petty criminals. We also handle much necessary paperwork, such as wills… how is your mother feeling, by the way, Mrs. Bennington?"

Margaret's mouth fell open in shock. She reached over for Isabella, and I saw that there were tears in her eyes.

Frank looked absolutely livid. His eyes flashed with fury, but he contained himself long enough to turn to me and say, "I'm afraid we have to be going, Esme. It's getting late. Many congratulations."

I nodded miserably. My own throat felt terribly constricted. "Thank you so much for coming," I managed to say.

Margaret didn't seem to be able to speak. She just looked at me and I did everything to shout my apology through my eyes. Then they turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood up. "What did you have to say that for? That was absolutely uncalled for!"

Charles turned to me, his black eyes gleaming. "Uncalled for? She was begging for it, making fun of me at my own wedding!"

"She was not making fun of you!" I nearly shouted. "She was just teasing, and I don't care if you were the President of the United States and this was your inauguration ceremony; don't you dare treat my best friend like that!"

Charles moved so quickly that I didn't even notice before I felt a terrible pain shoot through my arm. He had stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, twisting my hand painfully. I felt tears of my own form in my eyes and I fought the urge to cry out. He leaned down until we were face-to-face. "Don't you ever tell me what to do again. _Do you hear me?"_

I nodded mutely.

He released me and flung my arm away from him. I stumbled backwards, clutching my hand. I looked up to see him watching someone. I followed his gaze and saw Uncle Franklin standing there, his glass of champagne halfway to his mouth. I saw him nudge someone – my father – and gesture in our direction. In the time it took my father to find the object of Uncle Franklin's attention, Charles was already back at my side.

"Let's dance," he murmured, wrapping an arm around my waist and sweeping me onto the dance floor.

Charles spun me around the floor, weaving us in and out of the other couples. When the song ended, I was quite dizzy and disoriented, but as Charles abandoned my once again and I made my way to a seat, I knew that my head was spinning for another reason entirely.

* * *

I stood in the washroom, studying my reflection in the mirror for the second time today. My eyes held a look of fright that I couldn't deny or ignore. I observed the lines across my brow and the trembling of my lips and I watched as my eyes filled with tears and spilled over. I suddenly felt nauseous and sat down on the floor, leaning against a wall. I curled up into a ball and rocked back and forth, hugging my knees to my chest. I let my tears fall as my circumstances hit me in waves. 

_It's my wedding night, and Charles is waiting in the bedroom, and I will never sleep in my old bed again._

The day before the wedding, I had cleaned all of my things out of room, just as Margaret had done, and moved them over to my new house.

_I'm married now, and I have to go to Charles, and I have to live my life with him._

I had cleaned out my wardrobe, and as I had pulled out the last of my clothes, I caught a glimpse of white. I had pulled out the old jacket, which was gathering dust, and held it between my hands. I had held it to my face, but the scent had long since faded; I couldn't even remember it any more.

_He's gone and he's never coming back and I couldn't be with him even if he did, because I'm married now. And Charles is waiting in the bedroom. And I have to go to him. And Carlisle is gone forever._

I ground my fists into my eyes in an effort to regain control of myself.

"Esme?"

I looked up. Charles was calling me. An odd silence fell over me. I stood up and unnecessarily brushed myself off. I leaned over the sink and washed my face clean. When I looked at my reflection, I was surprised to see how calm I looked. I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear before heading out into the short hallway to our room.

I opened the door and saw Charles, reading beside the lamp, which cast shadows elsewhere. My eye was drawn to my wardrobe on the other side of the room. In my old room, it had been right by the door, but now it was almost directly opposite.

Charles set his book aside and stood up. I involuntarily glanced at the wardrobe again, before forcing myself to join my husband.

* * *

I wasn't necessarily being unfaithful, I thought later that night while Charles slumbered next to me. Spending the whole night imagining that I was with someone else didn't count as actually_ being_ with someone else, I reasoned, listening to Charles' deep breaths as they stirred my hair, trying desperately to recall that sweet smell. I glanced out over the room, searching for the silhouette of my wardrobe. The moon reflected off of the wood in such a way as to make it seem to glow from the inside out. After all, Carlisle would never really come back. 

But I would always keep his jacket safely hidden. Just in case.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the suggestion of Isabella, **NellieGURL **and** Ame Warashi**! Did you all like the chapter? A stolen cherry pie to everyone who reviews! 


	11. Boiling Water

**Author's Note: **Okay, big Author's Note this time. First off, as always, many thanks to **Runs-with-vampires, Ame Warashi, Deliriously Withdrawn, NellieGURL, your vennela, erised-i, miss.dramatikkkk, azvamplover, SockShopping, XboredX16, Alia DeBel, **and **RosaLeeMullins **for reviewing! A stolen cherry pie goes to each of you, except for **miss.dramatikkkk, **who, as per her request, gets an apple pie. :-)

Okay, so I did some miscalculating in the last chapter. It's rather miniscule, but it's driving me crazy nevertheless. During the wedding reception, I had written that Woodrow Wilson had only recently been reelected and that the Lusitania had sunk the year before the wedding. I calculated my months incorrectly. The Lusitania sank two years before the wedding took place, it had been over a year since Wilson had been reelected, and the Americans have been at war for four months. ::blushes:: Sorry about that. If anyone's interested, I went back and edited the chapter to fix that little... sweetheart.

Okay, so onto a more important issue than editing quirks: as I'm sure you're all aware, Eclipse comes out the day after tomorrow (!!!!!). Actually, by the time I finish posting this, it will be coming out tomorrow! Anyway, Mrs. Meyer has in several cases mentioned that we are going to be learning more about Rosalie and Jasper in Eclipse. And, while I didn't hear her say anything about Esme one way or the other, it's entirely possible that we will find out more about her past, as well. Now, I already have several scenes planned out in my head for the future of this story, some of which I've grown quite attached to (I can't wait for this one scene between Carlisle and - nevermind), but if necessary I will forfeit these scenes for the sake of remaining canon. However, I have decided not to change anything from Chapters 1-11, with the minor exception of names of characters. What I'm getting at is, if there _is_ some big revelation about Esme in Eclipse (and I'm not talking about a "huge, earth-shattering Lily Evans revelation where we find out that - gasp! - her love saved Harry" kind of revelation) that takes place somewhere between ages 16 and 22, my story will turn into an AU. If this happens, I hope you all will continue to read and enjoy the now ever-so-slightly AU story. :-)

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Esme Evenson, and Charles Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer, whom I should very much like to hug. Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Platt belong to me. :-)

Okay, okay, enough chatter! On with the chapter!

**11. Boiling Water**

I nibbled my lip as I nervously carried a full pot of water from the sink to the stove. I held it with both hands, and tried to hold it away from my body so I wouldn't slosh the water down my front.

It was two weeks after our wedding, and I was attempting to make supper. I couldn't understand where all of my culinary skills had gone. I had used to be quite adept at cooking, having watched my mother since I was a little girl, but lately I had felt very self-conscious about my cooking. Charles liked his meals just so, and I erred so easily.

I let out my breath as I lifted the pot onto the burner.

The door burst open. I jumped violently, spilling what felt like half of the water down my dress.

Charles entered, and he looked unhappy. I turned to greet him but he swept past me without a word. I heard him enter his study, and presently he returned to the kitchen, clutching several official-looking papers.

"How many times must you change your will? I mean, honestly, it isn't going to matter to you much longer, is it?" I heard him growl.

He walked to our table and pulled out a chair, sitting down in it forcefully.

I tip-toed over to him, trying not to make too much noise. He was scribbling something on one of the papers when I leaned over him, kissing his dark hair lightly. He started and looked up. I watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled.

"What's for supper?"

"It's a bit nippy out. I decided for a nice stew and some biscuits."

"Hadn't you better be seeing to that, then?" he asked, looking back at his papers.

I nodded and silently went back over to continue with preparing. I had to refill the water for the vegetables, and this time I was successful.

Charles worked at the table while I cut up the carrots and potatoes, waiting for the water to boil. He worked quickly. By the time the water was starting to boil and I was working on the onions, he arranged his papers and shoved them into his briefcase.

He joined me at the counter, watching me work. I already knew that this was a sign that he was hungry, so I turned and offered him a piece of carrot, smiling at him.

He ignored the carrot, and his eyes instead skimmed down my front. I followed his gaze and saw that my dress was still quite wet and clingy from the water. As I started to blush he looked up and our eyes met. He leaned towards me and pressed his lips firmly against mine. One of his hands went to my waist, and one held my head close to his.

Charles always became rough after a few moments, and I sought to brace myself against the countertop. Instead, I dipped my hand into the boiling water, scalding my hand. I cried out and jerked my arm wildly out of the way, upsetting the pot. We both leapt out of the way, but we still got splashed with the steaming water as it splashed out.

Charles clutched at his right arm, yelling in pain.

"Dammit, Esme!" I saw a brief flash of his good arm swiping through the air. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, and there was a sharp throbbing on the left side of my head. I felt my legs being kicked aside as Charles hastily left the room, and I leaned my head down and pressed it against the cool floorboards.

I struggled to sit up. My entire left side hurt. The water had spilt all down my left side, and the aching in my head had gotten worse when I sat up. It took me awhile to piece together the last few moments – Charles' words, the sound his arm had made when it made contact with the side of my face, the distant, echoing sound of my cry, the feeling of my body hitting the floor – in order to comprehend why my head was hurting.

In a daze, I pulled myself to my feet. My vision was slightly blurry, and I had to shake my head before I could see properly. When my eyes cleared, I looked at the puddle of water on the ground next to the pot, and I felt a sob wrack my body. I buried my face in my hands and cried, leaning against the counter for support that came a little too late. I clutched at my arm while the tears flowed, but the pain had hardly anything to do with it. Slowly, the flow stopped, and when I wiped away the last of my tears, I felt very shaky. Uncertain of what to do, but dimly aware that I had to do something, I grabbed a towel and began mopping up the water, which had now cooled. I picked up the pot with shaky hands and filled it for the third time.

Charles didn't return to the kitchen until supper was nearly finished. His hand was slightly red, but was mercifully free from blisters. His hair was neat and moist, as though he had combed it back with water.

I couldn't find the courage to look into his eyes.

I sensed that he was right behind me, but I resolutely stayed where I was, stirring the thickening stew. I felt his arms wind around me and he rested his head on my shoulder. I tensed, and my hands began to shake once more. Terrified that I would spill again, I stopped stirring.

He pressed his lips against my ear.

"You know I love you, don't you?"

I couldn't speak.

His arms tightened slightly. "Don't you?"

My breath hitched, but I couldn't seem to force any words out. Swiftly, he grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to face him. I could see lightning in his eyes.

"I love you, Esme. You know that, right?" Somehow, his words seemed less a loving expression than a threat. I forced myself to nod.

He relaxed his hands and smiled slightly. I didn't move as he tipped his head and pressed a kiss to my neck.

He sighed. He played with a lock of my hair as he said, "Writing wills is such a drab business. I just finished finalizing Mrs. Malcolm's will. I swear, that daffy woman changed her mind over her inheritance so many times that God, himself, must be getting dizzy. Perhaps she believed that she couldn't die if her will wasn't finished." He chuckled. He pulled his face out of my hair to examine my expression. Evidently, he was dissatisfied with what he found there, because his countenance darkened and he pulled away, turning his back to me.

"Maybe she just wants to make sure that the things she loves don't… fall into the wrong hands," I whispered hoarsely.

Charles whirled around to face me. His black eyes were filled with an icy fire. "Yes, well, it's too late for that, now, isn't it?" He scowled and went to sit at the table. I turned back to the stove until I could compose myself.

When I cleared the dishes away after supper, Charles once again came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. I couldn't help it, but I cringed as he kissed his way up my neck and along my jawbone. When he could reach no further, he turned me in his arms. Looking into his hungry eyes I had a wild urge to scream. As he leaned towards me, I felt hysterically frightened, and with a cry, I pushed him away with all of my force. He staggered backwards and looked at me in disbelief. He reached for me again, and I heard myself speak.

"Please, Charles. I must get these things cleared away." My voice sounded weak and shaky.

We both knew that it was a feeble excuse, but Charles didn't push the subject. He raised his head and regarded me imperiously.

"Fine," he said curtly. He turned on his heel and went to stroll out of the room.

"Oh," he said at the doorway. He turned to me and I saw a cruel smirk playing around his mouth.

"By the way, your mother stopped by the office this morning. Margaret's mother is dead." Charles turned and left, snapping the door shut behind him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well? Did you like it? Just think: by the next time I update, we'll have Twilight Three! I really hope you all will keep reading even if the book sheds some light on the Esme-subject. :-) 


	12. Confessions

**Author's Note: **Thanks to **Oceanmina101, Ame Warashi, Deliriously Withdrawn, XboredX16, SockShopping, NellieGURL, Alia DeBel, azvamplover, DarlingKittystar, cakeaddict61 **(twice!)**, IceGoddess92, miss.dramatikkkk, Fallen Roses 07 **(also twice!)and **Twilighter **for reviewing! You guys are awesome! Thanks for waiting so long for an update. First off, I had to merrily procrastinate my way through Eclipse, and then I got both of my hands sliced open at work, making typing a tiny bit difficult. Anyway, a cherry pie to **Fallen Roses 07,** and a German chocolate cake to **cakeaddict61,** because she dropped her pie. :-)

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse (AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!), Esme Evenson, and Charles Evenson all belong to the brilliant-beyond-brilliant Stephenie Meyer. Franklin and Susannah (I finally named her - albeit sort of last minute) Platt, Frank, Margaret, and Isabella Bennington, Miriam Platt, Theodore Bloom, and that minister all belong to me.

**Chapter 12.** **Confessions**

The weather suited the day perfectly. Cold rain drizzled miserably down from a steel gray sky onto all of the spectators, leaving a plethora of tiny droplets on the hats, coats, and hair of everyone present. I stood on Margaret's right side, holding her hand tightly, and Frank was on her other side, his arm around her shoulders. We were both resolutely looking in other directions than her face. We both avoided her eyes, repressing the urge to observe her features and gauge her appearance. Incidentally, Margaret was most likely grateful for the rain, resenting as she did anyone who saw her cry. With her face already speckled with moisture, she would be free to let her tears flow without notice.

The minister's voice was a low hum in the background of Margaret and Uncle Franklin's misery, which seemed to deafen me the longer I stood near them. Uncle Franklin didn't cry. He stood straight as a rod, his face a mask of self-control. However, if one looked closely enough, one might notice the muscle contorting in his jaw, or the way the light in his eyes appeared to dull when the minister finished speaking, and it was time to cast flowers and soil upon the coffin that held his wife.

When her father stepped forward and let his fistful of dirt fall into the grave, Margaret suddenly began to shake violently. I cast a panicked look in Frank's direction, silently asking him what to do. However, Margaret made that decision for me when she shrugged out of Frank's hold but kept a firm grip on my hand when she walked to the grave. Charles briefly grabbed me by my elbow, but then let go when Frank sent a death glare his way.

I looked down on the polished mahogany coffin that was glistening from an accumulation of rain. Margaret hesitated for only a moment before holding her hand over the hole and letting the fingers of her left hand unclench. A shower of dirt sprinkled from her fingers, getting momentarily caught in the wind before settling onto the wood. I felt my breath catch, but I waited for Margaret to make the next move. I shot a glance in her direction and was startled to see that she was looking into my eyes. It was torture to see the devastation in them, but I held her gaze determinedly.

After a moment, she quickly stooped and grabbed something off the ground. She held her hand out to me and I opened the fingers of my free hand underneath hers. She opened her fingers once again and another handful of dirt fell into my hand.

"You're practically my sister anyway," Margaret whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak. I turned and quickly let my handful fall. Then I met her eyes once more and put my hand around her shoulders. She clung to me as we stepped back with our husbands. I saw Charles watching the two of us with something like resentment in his eyes. I looked over Margaret's head and saw Frank gazing at us as well. However, he gave me a small smile and mouthed, "Thank you."

Margaret regained her composure and stood straight like her father while her mother's body was buried. After the ceremony was finished, we all headed back to my parents' house, where there were sandwiches and cookies, coffee and wine, all provided by my mother.

Once inside, Margaret was stopped several times by supportive neighbors, and I was shuffled away from her side. Very suddenly, I was whipped around.

Charles had wrapped his arm around my shoulders and was talking with a few men. One man, who appeared to be the center of attention, was dressed in an army uniform and spoke to the men in a grave voice.

"Yes, England and France are in dire straits right now, and they're taking all the help they can get. Actually, I've heard talk of Congress lowering the draft age to eighteen. I myself ship out this evening for Germany."

"Is the situation really as bad as they're making it out to be, Teddy?" one of the men asked anxiously.

The soldier named Teddy nodded gravely. "Yes, I'm afraid to say it is." He looked around and spotted me standing timidly, clamped to Charles' side. Teddy jumped theatrically with surprise. "Well, hello there!" The men around me laughed, Charles included.

"Theodore, this is Esme, my wife. Esme, this is Theodore Bloom."

Theodore bowed ostentatiously to me and held out a hand for mine. "It's a pleasure, little lady," he said. The merest half of a glance in Charles' direction told me that I had to go along with this pompous farce, so I offered him my hand. Theodore Bloom grasped it and held it up to his lips before glancing down at it.

Mr. Bloom quickly jerked away from my hand with a spluttering noise. "Well, I say!" He let out a robust laugh and held my hand up to display it to the band of men. As the men began to raise eyebrows, I noticed what was the object of their bemusement. My hand was still covered in the soot from the graveside. I hadn't had the chance to wash it yet. I felt Charles freeze up at my side.

"Playing in the mud, my dear? Perhaps making a mud pie for your husband?" I felt a sharp sting of pain in my chest at the words "my dear," as the men began to chuckle condescendingly.

Charles laughed along with the men, but I wasn't fooled. "You'll have to excuse poor Esme, here." He turned to me, a smile twisting his face. "Why don't you go clean yourself off, silly woman?" I saw a flash of fury in his black eyes, so I made quick work of excusing myself from my degradation party. As I fled the scene, I heard Charles say, "Women!" to a raucous bout of wine-induced laughter.

My cheeks burned and my eyes stung from anger and humiliation. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't leave Margaret's side long enough to clean my hands off. Charles knew that perfectly well, but he had been showing off in front of his friends. I was a little less than polite as I elbowed my way through the crowd and upstairs into the washroom. Once inside, I glared at my reflection and struggled with my emotions.

I wasn't given very long.

I heard the door open and close behind me, and I knew who it was without having to turn. Charles was standing beside me, and before I even had a chance to brace myself, he had grabbed my arm, and was twisting it palm side up, looking down his nose at my hand. All feelings of anger and embarrassment drained out with the color in my face. Fear gripped my entire body, and I felt myself begin to tremble. I couldn't meet his eyes for fear of seeing the fury that I had come to know so well over the past month.

"Look at your hand, Esme." I could hear the sneer in his voice. "It's positively filthy." He threw the incriminating hand away from himself, scoffing. I quickly ducked, and therefore missed the swipe of his arm I had known was coming.

That was clearly a mistake.

In an instant, Charles had grabbed me by the shoulders and thrust me backwards until my back cracked against the windowsill. Childishly, I shut my eyes as he leaned towards my face.

"You humiliated me in front of people whom I respect, and who, until now, also respected _me_ a great deal," he snarled at me. I forced myself to open my eyes. He was less than an inch away from me.

"What do you imagine they're thinking, now, eh, Esme? They're wondering why the hell I married such a slovenly wretch. They wonder if perhaps you and I are, in fact, birds of a feather." His voice rose a fraction, and he ground my back against the hard wood behind me. I winced, crying out softly.

Charles leaned in until his lips brushed against my cheek as he whispered. "If you _ever_ embarrass me in front of _anyone, ever again_ - make no mistake: it will be your last act." He pulled me away from the window and pushed me so that I stumbled to the sink. He walked to the door and then turned to look at me leaning over the sink, frozen in pain and fear.

"For God's sake – clean yourself up." He left me alone.

* * *

I emerged from the washroom a few minutes later, my hands clean and my face composed. I stepped back into the roomful of people, and I immediately caught sight of Margaret. She was a wreck. Her hair and dress were both in disarray from the rain, and when she spotted me, she gave me a look that clearly called out for help.

I quickly plunged into the crowd, more gently this time, but still in a hurry. Margaret was asking for my help, and I wasn't about to let her down. When I arrived at her side, Margaret surreptitiously took my hand.

I gave an exaggerated start of surprise.

"Why, Margaret!" I exclaimed. "Look at you! You're positively soaking from the rain. Let's both go and freshen up a little, shall we?"

Margaret's eyes were swimming in gratefulness as she managed to mutter, "You know, I do think you have an idea, there."

I turned and announced collectively to the well wishers in a voice I had picked up somewhat from my mother-in-law, "_Do_ excuse us." And with that, I tightened my grasp on Margaret's hand and all but dragged her upstairs and into my old bedroom.

Once inside, I noticed that my mother, forever astonishing in her omniscience of all aspects, had thought to leave us dry dresses for after the out-of-doors ceremony. Margaret caught sight of them and sighed.

"Your mother is so thoughtful, Esme. I feel wretched in this getup." She strolled over to the dresses and separated hers from mine. I followed her and stopped behind her, undoing her dress for her.

"Thank you," she said over her shoulder, shrugging out of her dress.

She stepped out of her damp and slightly dirty dress and into the clean, dry one while I reached for my dress.

"Here, let me do that," she offered as I reached rather awkwardly behind me to unzip. I heard the soft sound of my dress coming undone and then a sharp intake of breath. Margaret dropped her hands.

"Esme… what _happened _to you?!" I turned quickly as Margaret stepped away from me in horror, her hands over her mouth.

"You're – you're covered in bruises!" she cried, clutching at strands of her hair, eyes wide.

My stomach plummeted. I hadn't thought about that. _At least she hasn't seen my arms, _I thought.

"What happened?" Margaret repeated in a shaky voice.

I mouthed wordlessly, trying to come up with an excuse.

"I- I," I faltered. "I fell."

Margaret was suddenly still. Doubt was etched all over her face.

"You fell," she echoed.

I nodded, hoping that she wouldn't hear the tremor in my voice as I added, "Down the stairs."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You fell… down the stairs?" she asked dubiously, and there was an edge to her words that made me even more nervous.

I nodded again, unsure of how steady my voice would be if I spoke. Margaret broke eye contact with me, staring off into space.

She cleared her throat before looking at me again. "How many times?" she asked, sarcasm in every word.

"I- I… oh, Margaret!" I collapsed in a heap, my face in my hands.

I felt her gentle hands unzipping the dress the rest of the way. She gasped again as she surveyed the full extent of the damage, stroking my skin. Even the lightest pressure of her fingers made me wince. She tenderly turned my face up to meet hers.

"Oh, Esme, what has he done to you?" she whispered, her eyes shimmering with tears.

She pulled me into her arms and rocked me. I had a sudden wave of reminiscence as I thought of the day when I had gotten my cast off, almost six years ago. We had sat in this same spot and she had stroked my hair the same way, her fingers restlessly undoing the slightest knots.

I finally sat up, wiping my burning eyes on the sleeve of my already wet dress. Margaret looked at me as though I was her worst nightmare come to life.

"You," she began, and broke off. "You didn't… fall… down the stairs, did you?" she finished, her voice no more than a whisper.

I shook my head shamefully, dropping my chin.

"He pushed you." It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.

"Do your parents know?"

I shook my head, a few tears leaking out.

"Does anyone know?" she asked, her voice breaking at the end. I could hear the tears in her voice.

I raised my head to look at her. "You know," I whispered.

Margaret looked away. "This is all my fault," she muttered, suddenly sounding angry.

My eyes widened at the sudden virulence in her voice. "What do you mean?" I demanded.

She shook her head. "This is my fault. It's my fault you married him."

"What are you talking about? This is insane!"

"I went away," she stated simply. She still refused to look at me. "I went away and you got married. I… I urged you to marry Charles because I didn't want you to be alone. I felt guilty for leaving you and I wanted to be sure that you would be taken care of, so I told you to marry him. This is all my fault." Her voice broke again and I briefly saw the light catch a tear as it fell from the tip of her nose.

I shook my head wildly. She couldn't think those things. "No! No, Margaret, it's not your fault! Of course it's not! How could you think that? It's no one's fault. I just…" I fell silent. I just what? Needed her approval? She hadn't asked for my approval before marrying Frank. She hadn't needed to. No. She was right. I had asked her what to do, and I now wondered if, deep down, I had known this about Charles. Perhaps my subconscious had made me ask Margaret in a desperate attempt to have someone tell me _not_ to marry him. And, if that was the case, then technically it _was_ her fault.

No! My whole being shied away from that possibility - from any blame falling on Margaret. It wasn't her fault! It couldn't be her fault. I shook my head violently to free myself from those haunting thoughts.

"I would have married him anyway."

It was true. I would have married Charles anyway, because I had needed to get married. I had needed someone to love, and Charles had been my only option. I _would _have married him anyway. And yet somehow, despite the release at knowing that Margaret was innocent, I felt more trapped than ever.

Margaret broke into my thoughts with an angry sob. "No! It _is _my fault. My fault for going away. I should have been closer." Her voice began trembling so hard that it was difficult to understand what she was saying. "If- if I had been closer I could have helped… I could have stopped it…. I went away and now my mother is dead! She's gone and it's all my-" her voice disappeared. With a spark of intuition, I realized what this outburst was truly about, and I reached for her and pulled her against my chest just in time. Her whole body heaved with sobs. I cradled her head and rocked her gently, making soothing noises. I kissed her hair.

"I- I wasn't even here when she died! _Why_ couldn't I have been here! M-maybe if I had stayed closer she…."

My voice shook as I spoke. "You know that's not true, Margaret. You know that she hadn't been feeling right for a long time. There was nothing you could do. All she ever wanted was your happiness, Margaret, and she's gotten it, don't you see, darling? You have Frank and Isabella, and… and you just _can't _blame yourself for things that aren't your fault," I finished, my throat constricting.

To my intense relief, I felt Margaret nod against me. She quieted enough to whisper, "I miss her so much."

I stayed on the floor with Margaret until she stopped crying, until my legs ached from their strange position on the floor, and until our first dresses had dried and our seconds had wrinkled. Margaret pulled away from me slightly, surveying me through red and puffy eyes.

"You know, she loved you like you were her daughter, too, Esme. She wanted your happiness, as well."

I nodded, managing a small smile.

"She would have wanted what was best for you…" she trailed off. My eyebrows came together. I wasn't quite sure of where she was taking this.

"That's why you need to tell somebody, Esme. You need to tell your parents about what Charles is doing to you."

I looked down and played with our linked fingers. I had almost forgotten about how this conversation had begun.

"I suppose I just sort of wished that it would go away on its own. Once… once we got used to each other, and I could become acclimated to being a wife. Maybe… maybe when I'm a better wife to him it'll stop." I looked into her eyes, begging her to agree with me.

Margaret shook her head. "It's not going to go away, Esme, you know that. It's going to get worse. He won't stop until he kills you. You _need_ to tell your parents."

"But Margaret, what if he finds out? What if he overhears that I've told them? He'll be so angry!" As I spoke these words, a feeling of terror washed over me. I felt like prey, and I suddenly felt terribly foolish for letting Margaret find out. What if Charles blamed her?

"Margaret, he can't ever find out the things that I've told you, do you understand? He'd be so angry, and he could take it out on you. Margaret, he can't know!" I panicked, my voice rising shrilly now, and I clutched at Margaret's dress. Margaret wrenched my hands away, holding them tightly in her own.

"This has to stop, Esme. I've never seen you like this. _This must end._" She held my eyes firmly, and I gradually calmed down.

"All right," I finally assented. "I'll tell my mother about it."

"When?" Margaret demanded.

"I… I'm not sure. But I'll tell her." I added quickly at the look that Margaret gave me.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Maggie?" I heard Frank call softly.

"In here, Frank," she answered after helping me to cover myself more properly.

Frank entered hesitantly, opening the door only enough to let himself in, and then closing it behind him. His eyes took in our strange scene suspiciously, but fortunately prudence made him look away before he could discern much about my appearance.

"Isabella is crying for you, darling, I think she needs fed."

Margaret nodded, getting to her feet. "I'm coming."

Frank gently placed a hand on her waist when she reached him, and she turned back to me at the door.

"Remember what I said, Esme," she said quietly, but with authority.

I nodded silently. Frank smiled at me before following his wife out the door.

I rose to my feet, quickly discarding my dirty dress and pulling on the new one. I looked into the full-length mirror that was still in here from my wedding and smoothed out a few of the wrinkles before buttoning the dress. New bruises caught my eyes. They were on my upper arms. I realized that they were from this afternoon, when Charles had grabbed me in the washroom. I looked down at my arms and I could see the finger marks etched into my pale skin.

"_He won't stop until he kills you. This must end." _Margaret's words echoed in my head.

I turned slightly, looking over my shoulder for the mirror's reflection of my back and shoulders.

"_All right. I'll tell my mother about it."_

My back was crisscrossed with bruises. I could see the newest one: a straight line across my shoulder blades – where I had been forced against the windowsill.

"_When?"_

I heard all of our words repeated back to me as I quickly twisted back around to face the mirror and finished doing up my dress, my fingers shaking.

"I… I'm not sure. But I'll tell her." 

I watched as my eyes hardened with determination.

No time like the present.

* * *

So, what did you guys think? I'm really glad that you all hate Charles as much as I do! That'll make getting rid of him all the more fun. ::twists glue-on mustache between fingers, grinning slyly:: 


	13. The Present

**Author's Note: **Thanks to **IceGoddess92, erised-i, Twilighter, NellieGURL, DarkBlueRoses, Runs-with-vampires, Deleriously Withdrawn, Twisted Willow, azvamplover, miss.dramatikkkk, Alia DeBel, meera, SockShopping, Fallen Roses 07, DarlingKittystar, IchigoCullen, Piper of Locksley, XboredX16, **and **EmilyMitchell **for reviewing! Wow! I can't reiterate enough just how wonderful you guys all are! LotB passed the 100-review mark with chapter twelve, and it made me glow! I have some prizes to give out, but first:

**meera:** First off, thank you so much for reviewing! Honestly? The best you've ever read? If I'm not careful, people are going to start calling me Katie the Red-Faced Author, or something::shies away from feral snarl, holding up a chair with which to defend herself:: No! Don't give up sugar! What are you, nuts (okay, so for some reason, won't let me add a question mark to the end of the question, so just never mind about the whole thing.) :-)

Okay, as for prizes: first things first: A cake, a stolen cherry pie, and a wet-shirted Carlisle go to **DarlingKittystar, **as well as **DarkBlueRoses, Piper of Locksley, **etc. etc. Basically, anybody who didn't already receive one when I mentioned them. Plus, a Carlisle plushie to everyone who's read the story thus far (and in the future, of course)! Also: an apple pie to **IchigoCullen**, because she prefers apple. :-) And, last but most _definitely_ not least, I noticed a great deal of interest in my evil, twisty mustache, so: **an evil, twisty mustache for all!!**

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Esme Evenson, Charles Evenson, and Carlisle Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer... in fact, an evil, twisty mustache for Stephenie, too!! Miriam Platt, Samuel Platt, and Margaret Bennington all belong to me. :-)

**Chapter 13. The Present**

I waited until the last of the guests straggled home before talking to my mother. I was helping her in the kitchen when I cleared my throat nervously.

She looked up, slightly distracted. "Did you say something, Esme?"

I quailed. "No, mother."

She continued washing the dishes as I dried them and put them away, this kitchen more familiar to me than my own, although I had deliberately organized my kitchen similarly. The wooden stool was still next to the stove, I observed. Had Charles hit me in this kitchen, I would have cracked my head against it.

"Mother," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

"Yes, dear?"

"Um…" What was I supposed to say? How do you tell your mother something like that?

"What is it, Esme?" She asked, concern evident on her brow. Somehow she knew that this was serious.

I looked down. "I… well, I wanted to…"

Mother's eyes softened. "You can tell me anything, darling."

"It- it's about Charles," I blurted out, looking into her eyes, willing her to understand without my having to say anything. The way Margaret had.

It was not to be. Instead, my mother asked, "What about him?"

"Well… it's not just about him. It's… it's about me, too,"

She waited. Clearly she wasn't going to give me any help.

"We're… Charles has been… what I mean to say is… we've been having… trouble," I finished pathetically.

Mother withdrew her hands from the dishwater, drying them on her apron, comprehension written all over her face. I felt a wash of relief that I didn't have to go further.

"Oh, darling why didn't you say something earlier? You should really be talking to your father about this, you know, not me. I don't control the purse strings around here!" She laughed.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, feeling as though I had missed a step somewhere.

"Well, Esme, obviously if you need money you'll have to ask your father."

My heart fell. "It's not about money, mother," I whispered.

"Well, then, for heavens' sake, what _is_ it about, Esme? Just _tell _me." She reached out to stroke my cheek. I automatically winced away from her. She paused, a trace of hurt touching her expression.

It became very obvious to me that I couldn't put this into words, that there was no practical way of describing what had been happening. So I wordlessly rolled up one of my sleeves and extended my arm towards her. Charles' finger marks seemed especially ugly in the dim light. I was completely mute as I watched my mother's eyes widen, her mouth opening as she finally understood.

She met my gaze. "You and Charles are having trouble," she whispered, repeating my words.

I nodded, covering my arm again.

"Ever since you got married?" She asked quietly.

I nodded again. "Margaret said that I should say something to you."

My words were met with silence, so I added, "She thought you could do something."

My mother was staring at my arm, a strange expression on her face. I waited, but she remained silent. My brow crinkled. Why was she so quiet? Why wasn't she saying something? I decided that perhaps she needed prompting.

"So… what should I do? Shall I move back in with you and father?"

That snapped her out of her reverie. She looked up at me in confusion.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

I was getting more bewildered by the minute as I suggested, "Or, perhaps I should leave town?"

"Esme, what are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice sounding uncharacteristically harsh.

"Mother!" I said, fear beginning to trickle into my spine. What was the matter with her? Hadn't she seen my arm? Perhaps she didn't understand what those bruises were.

"Mama," I whispered plaintively.

"Esme, you can't leave Charles. What are you talking about?" she repeated, looking at me as if this were the most obvious fact in the world.

My eyes widened. "But, mother! He did-"

"It doesn't matter what he did," she said curtly.

A feeling of hopelessness washed over me. No. This couldn't be what she thought. This had to be some sort of nightmare. I felt tears start in my eyes. Her expression gentled. She reached out again, and this time I let her touch my face.

"Esme," she began in a soft, soothing voice. "Marriage is a complicated thing. It takes work. Hard work. It's not easy to get right, and mistakes will be made, that's understandable."

A mistake? Charles had made a mistake,pushing me down staircases, throwing me around, hitting me whenever he felt aggravated? _A mistake?_

"What you need to do, Esme, is learn from your mistakes. Charles is a patient man, but even patient men have their limits."

So Charles hadn't made the mistakes. _I_ had made the mistakes. _I_ was the one in the wrong, and Charles was the victim. I listened in abject horror as my mother went on.

"Every marriage has its difficulties, Esme. But just as long as you work hard to be a good wife to Charles, and don't complain or make it hard for him to love you, things will work out just fine. All right?"

I felt myself nodding, although I had no control over the action. Mother smiled, seeming relieved that I had taken my lecture so well.

"Every marriage has its rough spots, darling. You'll get through this one just fine, don't you worry."

She let the water out, and I watched silently as the water spiraled around and around, until it finally disappeared. Then, I hung up my towel and went to rejoin my husband, feeling like I was spiraling out of control myself.

* * *

I did try. I did everything within my power to be a good wife. I made sure that a complaint never passed my lips, neither around Charles nor anyone else. I practiced until my cooking and cleaning was impeccable. I tried so very hard to convince myself that what my mother had said was correct – that this was a rough spot, a difficulty, and that we would get through it. I kissed Charles before he left for the office, I cleaned the house until it was spotless, cooked his favorite meals, and served them to him with another kiss in the evenings. 

Nothing worked.

No matter how hard I tried, Charles always found something that I had done wrong, and I was powerless to stay his fury.

During one particularly violent evening, I had sat, huddled in the hallway, shaking and crying. I had had my eyes shut tight when suddenly, a vision flashed behind my eyelids.

I saw Carlisle's face.

I gasped. I had far from forgotten him, but after marrying Charles, I had tried to force Dr. Cullen to the back of my mind, feeling indecent for dreaming of him when I belonged to another man. But now he presented himself to me, his image clearer to me than it had been for years. He had smiled at me, his eyes sparkling with a warmth I had recently told myself I would have to live without. My tears stopped, and I was able to pick myself up and continue on with my tasks.

Since then, I had taken to mentally withdrawing myself from the situation whenever Charles exploded. When it all became too much, and I was alone, I could retreat to the comfort of Carlisle's face, smiling gently and lovingly at me.

It was early October, and I was enjoying the process of making a delicious roasted chicken for Carlisle, myself, and our five children, giggling as Carlisle stood behind me, his arms around my waist and his chin on my shoulder, when my husband walked in the front door.

I looked up, startled. I dropped the knife I was holding as Carlisle vanished from my side. When I straightened back up, Charles was standing across the room from me, reading a thick, official-looking letter with a stunned look on his face. I stepped closer to him, concerned. I noticed that his eyes were not moving, that he was just staring at the letter, shock and… was that fear in his eyes?

"What is it?" I asked hesitantly.

Charles' eyes snapped up to me. He jumped as though he hadn't been aware that I was in the room. I watched apprehensively as he gazed at me unseeingly for a moment.

He closed his eyes tight, and then cleared his throat. When he reopened his eyes, I could see that he was back to normal.

He considered me coldly for a moment before saying, "I have been drafted into the Army. I leave in three days."

I gasped. "But… but Charles," I objected. "How is that possible? Wouldn't you have been inducted before now? The registration day was in June!"

Charles scoffed. "Honestly, woman, are you really as insensate as you seem?" he sneered. "I, as well as the rest of the entire country, am well aware of the fact that registration was in June. But do you happen to know what else was in June?"

I froze. "We announced our wedding in June," I whispered, feeling helpless.

Charles nodded. "That's right. As did about three-quarters of America's eligible men. I just thought that the reprieve would last a bit longer."

We stood in silence for an indeterminate amount of time; each of us lost in our own thoughts. Eventually Charles cleared his throat, making me jump.

"Regardless," he said, his voice indifferent and imperious once more, "I have to get my things ready. Let me know when supper is ready."

He turned sharply and swept out of the room.

I stayed where I was for a moment, looking unseeingly at the door he had just closed behind himself. _Charles is leaving. Charles is leaving. _The thought began to pound through my head at the speed of my heartbeat, slowly picking up speed. _Charles is leaving. He'll be somewhere where he can't touch me. He'll be in Europe, where he can't hurt me._ I had nearly forgotten what it felt like to live without pain. To be able to lie down on my back. To be able to bathe without averting my gaze so I wouldn't have to see the black and blue patches that were predominate no matter where I looked.

_After he leaves I won't hurt anymore. _Slowly, ever so slowly, I sank to the ground, unbidden tears streaking my face.

And for the first time in three months, I cried in happiness.

* * *

It was evening time again. Charles would leave early the next morning. His mother and mine had quickly thrown together a going-away party for him, which he had suffered through nobly, fooling everyone into thinking that he was enjoying his friends and family seeing him off. 

Everyone except me.

I could see the annoyance flit across his face whenever any older man would accost him and tell him about his days fighting for the Union during the Civil War. I noticed the fleeting scowl when one housewife after another approached him with a dish and spoon in hand, begging him to try her latest recipe, exulting when he smiled and took a bite, saying smoothly that she _must_ give me the recipe. By the end of the day I had at least twenty new recipes and Charles looked about ready to burst, whether from frustration or ambrosia salad, I wasn't sure.

The guests moseyed away in their own time, and Charles and I were alone again. I was building up a fire when Charles entered, his hair still wet from the bath. He stood watching me silently. Finally, I couldn't ignore him any longer. I turned to face him.

I knew that I should say something, I just wasn't sure of what. The silence hung in the tense air.

Suddenly, Charles started walking towards me. I started slightly, my heart speeding up. I began going through the entire day in my mind. Had I done anything wrong? I knew how much he had been irked by the guests, but had I specifically been any cause of vexation for him? It took everything in my power not to shy away from him when he stopped right in front of me.

"Esme," he whispered, his low voice rough. He leaned in until his lips brushed against mine. "Esme," he murmured again.

I felt his hands wrap around my waist as he kissed me. I was surprised. He wasn't usually this gentle at all. That quickly changed, though, as I made myself become more involved, placing my arms around his neck and returning the kiss. He pulled me tightly against him, his lips pressing mine open. I was having trouble breathing, and I turned my head to the side to look over my shoulder when the backs of my legs bumped against the bed. I hadn't even realized that he had been steering me.

He lifted me effortlessly, kissing up and down my neck as he did so. He set me down onto the bed and then climbed in himself, crawling towards me until I was forced to lay back onto the pillows.

I tried not to start shaking in intimidation when his lips trailed back up my neck to my jaw, all gentleness long gone from his kisses.

I cried out softly when he bit down hard on my neck.

"Again," he groaned. When I didn't comply, he bit down again, and this time I could feel the skin break. I cried out louder, feeling the sting when his cold breath hit my injury.

Charles had done this often enough for me to know that this was not going to be pleasant. He had never once been gentle; not even the first time. I knew that I was going to be very sore tomorrow morning, let alone how it was going to hurt tonight. I desperately tried to take my mind somewhere else where Charles wasn't bruising my lips as well as the rest of me. Somewhere where he wasn't pulling my hair so that, when I tilted my head back, he would have better access to my throat. Somewhere that Charles wasn't, where I was with someone different. I knew whom I wanted to be with.

I imagined that it was someone different who pulled me closer, who reached around and began to undo my dress. I was surprised to find that, when I thought of _him,_ I could actually enjoy myself.

Someone different finished with the buttons down my back and pulled down the shoulders of my dress. Someone else pushed a knee in between mine and, when he rocked against me, I cried out in ecstasy.

"Carlisle!"

All was still. My heart stopped as both Charles and I registered what I had said. Then, uncontrollably, I began to shake. I could feel Charles trembling too as he pulled his face away so that he could look into my eyes. My entire body was rocked with tremors when I saw the raw, unadulterated wrath burning in his black eyes.

"_What… did you say?"_ he demanded through clenched teeth.

I opened my mouth, but I could force no words out.

"What did you say?" he repeated, his anger growing, if possible.

I mouthed wordlessly, paralyzed with fear.

"_What?!"_ he yelled. In one movement, he had pulled me out from underneath him and thrown me to the ground. He stooped down and grabbed me back up by my shoulders, shaking me violently.

"WHO IS CARLISLE?!" He hollered, hitting me hard across the face. I would have fallen, but he held me immobile in his arms.

"He… he's," I struggled for words, but what was there to say?

He became very quiet. _"Who?"_ he whispered.

When he was met with silence, he yelled, _"Speak,_ _you_ _harlot!"_

He threw me away from himself with all of his force. I went crashing into the wardrobe. I grabbed onto a door for support as I fell. The door opened and, with a scream of terror, I saw the closet tip and fall towards me. As quickly as I could, I ripped open the other door and then threw myself flat to the ground, shielding my head in my arms.

The closet crashed to the ground around me, and I found myself buried in my clothes. Both doors seemed to have broken off so that, instead of being crushed, I was inside the wardrobe.

I rolled over and found that I was being smothered. Panicking, I clawed at the back of the wardrobe, trying to throw it off of me.

It wouldn't move. Summoning all of the strength I could, I braced my hands and feet against the back and heaved with all of my might. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to shift it enough so that I could slip a hand underneath the wall. Crying out in pain and exertion, I used every part of my body that was in contact with wood and pushed.

I scrambled out of the stifling enclosure and back into the room, where Charles watched me coldly, standing as still as a statue, his arms folded at his chest, making no move to help me.

I tried to crawl away, but I was stopped with a jolt. With a shriek of pain, I realized that my ankle was still trapped underneath. I twisted around and pulled futilely at the wall, fighting to lift it once more.

But my strength was gone, and it stayed still. I threw all of my body weight into trying to shift the closet, but it wouldn't budge.

Charles watched me struggle in silence, until I slumped over the wardrobe and became still, completely defeated. He crossed the room in several long strides, got a firm hold on one side, and turned the closet on its side in one easy movement.

I didn't have the energy to contemplate how easily Charles could have rescued me. I didn't even have the energy to clutch my foot in my hands.

As it was, I could barely raise my head when I heard Charles say, "What is this?"

My heart stopped. Charles was holding Carlisle's jacket between two fingers.

Had I been more alert, I would have realized that Charles was glancing at it indifferently, and that, had it not been for the look of dread on my face, he might not have thought twice about it.

Unfortunately, Charles was much more mentally agile than I at that moment, and he quickly read the look on my face.

"It's his, isn't it?" He asked, deadly calm.

"No," I blurted out, trying to make the lie look convincing on my face.

"No?" Charles repeated, a coy smirk playing at one corner of his mouth. "Then whose is it?"

I frantically cast around for some excuse, for some reason I should have a man's jacket in with my clothes. But all I could come up with was, "It's no one's."

"Oh?" Charles raised his eyebrows, regarding the fabric with careful nonchalance.

"It's rather old fashioned," he said, stretching it out so that he could observe its cut and style. "Surely you don't need such an old jacket if it doesn't belong to anybody? Why don't I give it away?"

"No!" I cried out before I could stop myself. Charles' eyes narrowed.

"Is it his, isn't it? This 'Carlisle.'" He spat the name out like it was poisonous. "Who is he? Does he live in town?"

I didn't speak.

"Answer me," he growled.

When I stayed silent, he rounded on me, his teeth bared. "You tell me if he lives in town! When I find him, I swear to God I'll tear him apart!"

"No!" I cried. Fear gripped me. Somehow, even though he was hundreds if not thousands of miles away, I needed to protect Carlisle, because I knew that Charles _would_ go looking for him. I made myself speak. "He doesn't live in town. I haven't seen him in years."

"You knew him before we were married?" Charles demanded.

"Yes," I whispered.

"You little whore," he spat. "How many other men did you _know_ before we were married?"

"It wasn't like that!" I insisted. "It… it belonged to the doctor who mended my leg when I was sixteen. He… gave it to me."

"And what was the fine doctor's name, prey tell? Could it be 'Carlisle,' per chance?" Charles was playing with me now, and I could see that there was no point in lying.

"Yes," I said softly, looking at the ground.

"And you keep his coat around for what reason? In case he comes back for it?"

"I… I didn't want to waste it. It's a perfectly good jacket." It was true. It _was_ a perfectly good jacket, so even if lying was futile, bending the truth slightly might work in my favor.

"So you're saving it because it doesn't need thrown away… how utilitarian."

I knew then that nothing was going to work. There was no way out of this, and I knew that, when I looked up, Charles could see the defeat in my eyes.

He regarded me for a moment, glaring at me hatefully, before striding to the fireplace. By the time I realized what he intended to do, it was too late for me to even shout out. He had already balled the jacket up and cast it into the flames.

Charles turned and looked at me, daring me to beg him to retrieve it. I knew what would happen if I begged him to save it, so I remained as silent as the tears falling fast from my eyes. It felt as though I were watching Carlisle himself shriveling and blackening in the fireplace, and I hated that Charles held me there. He didn't physically restrain me, but he held me as much of a prisoner eight feet away as he could if he clutched me in his arms.

When there was nothing left of the jacket but ashes, Charles walked to the door and pulled it open. Before leaving, he took in the look of grief I was sure was on my face.

"He's never coming back for you, child." And with that, he left and closed the door behind him.

Left alone, I quickly lost whatever composure I had managed to maintain while Charles was in the room. Unable to walk, I half crawled, half dragged myself to the fireplace, where I laid my head down and sobbed. I didn't cry in loss. I didn't even cry in pain.

I cried because I knew that, undeniably, Charles was right.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So? Are we all happy that Charles is leaving for the Army? ... After all, I think we should all try to look on the bright side whenever possible. :-) 


	14. Homecoming

**Author's Notes: **Aaaahhh!! I am _so _unbelievably sorry I've let this go so long without updating! I've just been really busy applying to colleges (I know, I know, what excuse is _college, _for Pete's sake, when put up against _Twilight_??), and plus I got pretty seriously ill shortly after I updated the last chapter. I would never have thought a cold could escalate to such proportions, but there you are. Anyway! This isn't too, too long of a chapter, but I wanted to get _something_ up, and I also wanted to stop it where I did.

So, onto you, dear readers! A million thanks to **TheUniverseBeyond, The REAL Alice Cullen, Deliriously Withdrawn, SockShopping, LovingMyDoctor, your vennela, Twilighter, azvamplover, meera **(twice! Not including the signed-in review!)**, Twisted Willow, Fallen Roses 07, miss.dramatikkkk, Ame Warashi, Isabel Hale, Annie **(to whom I'll respond in just a second)**, liteblue95** (also known as signed-in **meera**)**, DarlingKittystar, erised-i, XboredX16, Alia DeBel, Runs-with-vampires, dick and dunn, MissMei92, arisaswordheart, HobWizElf, **and last, but definitely not least, **NeverGoodbyeRoxas** for reviewing::pants, slumps over in seat::

Also, a wet-hunter-green-shirted Carlisle to **Twisted Willow, **and a shirtless Edward for **your vennela,** just for extra-special, because she asked for it. Do I spoil my readers? You bet:-D

**Annie:** Thank you! Ooh, you've hit my soft spot. I just love it when I'm mentioned in the same sentence/paragraph as Stephenie!! Oh, I know! Edward won't be happy when he finds out about Charles! After he meets Esme, of course. :-) Exactly! I couldn't agree more! I would prefer Carlisle any day of the week to just about anybody, not just my abusive spouse! (If I _had_ an abusive spouse, that is, which I don't, fortunately.) I do have an abusive cat, however. But I think I might prefer the Jersey Devil to her when she's mad, sometimes. :-D

So, I noticed that a lot of people were kind of upset with Esme's Mom for her reaction to finding out about the abuse going on in Esme's house. It's not really that great to think about, but we have to consider the time-frame. This takes place long before the feminist movement in America, before women could vote, before women could pretty much do any of the things we enjoy today (like becoming football stars, like we all do every day of the week). And the sad fact is, many women simply didn't believe that they could measure up to a man. That was the way they were raised and what they were taught to believe. Plus, Esme's mother was raised in a very conservative and femininely oppressed household. She was taught that it was her prime duty in life to be a good housewife and mother. So, when Esme's mother reacted the way she did, it wasn't because she's mean or doesn't love Esme. She has never seen Charles act inappropriately in any way, and she assumed that Esme had pushed him too far. She also didn't see the extent of the damage that Margaret saw. All she saw was that Esme had a bruise on one arm. Anyway, I just thought I'd mention that, to try and stay any ill feeling against Mrs. Platt. She really is a very good person, she just has a seriously warped system of beliefs. oO

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Carlisle Cullen, Esme Evenson, and Charles Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer, who was in Pennsylvania doing a signing and I didn't even know about it! Theodore Bloom, Mr. and Mrs. Platt, Mr. and Mrs. Evenson, Frank and Margaret Bennington, Dr. and Mrs. Malcolm, Harry Malcolm, the old lady, the musician, and the porter all belong to me (you can have the porter, the old lady, or the musician though, if you really want them. They're not that important to me.) :-)

**Chapter 14. Homecoming**

_Dear Mrs. Evenson,_

_It is my pleasure to inform you that your husband, Charles W. Evenson, has been released from service in the United States Armed Forces, as of the end of the Great War._

_His ship to America is scheduled to set sail on April 3__rd_

_I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain Theodore Bloom_

I stared at the letter blindly, the same way that Charles had looked at his draft letter. The same dread that had marred Charles' face from the thought of going to war now marked mine from the thought of his coming back from it. Eyes wide and unseeing, I laid my head on the table. The letter fell from my limp hand and drifted to the floor.

* * *

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other nervously, chewing on my lip. Partially, my restlessness was because I was chilly – it was windy on the train platform where I stood, waiting for my husband's train to arrive. But mostly, it was because I was terrified.

What was going to happen to me when I saw the train appear over the horizon? Would I freeze in place, struck dumb? Would I play the part of a good wife happy to see her husband after a year's separation and throw myself into his arms and kiss every part of his face I could reach? Would I scream and run away? Or would I, perhaps, turn into a gruesome spectre, my fear at last taking tangible form?

My parents and parents-in-law were also at the train station, though they were in considerably higher spirits. Mrs. Evenson wrung her hands and bounced on the balls of her feet, an anticipatory smile stretched across her face. Mr. Evenson occasionally stretched up onto his toes, gazing down the tracks for a glimmer of light or a puff of steam. My father stood next to my mother, hands in his pockets, chewing on the end of his pipe thoughtfully. My mother clung to my father's arm, shivering and impatiently brushing her hair from her face.

Mentally, I was in turmoil. How had an entire year passed so quickly? Charles had left the morning after that terrible night, and there had been no news from him. No letters, no leave of absence, nothing. Nothing except the news in the papers. The vicious battles, the mounting death toll, the victories, the losses. All this, and not one scrap of news about Charles' whereabouts or welfare. Mrs. Evenson had become quite frantic when Christmas came and Charles didn't even send a card home.

I didn't know what to make of myself. I was making out exceedingly well on my own. My parents, the Evensons, and even Frank and Margaret had helped me financially. I had rearranged our house, which I enjoyed doing immensely; the bruises healed quickly, and I was physically doing very well; and in my spare time I helped Uncle Franklin around the house, doing chores and small deeds for him that he hadn't the knack for.

With Charles gone, I found myself happier than I would have thought possible, after marrying him. And, after fourteen months of unbroken silence from overseas, the thought, like a mirage, had begun to shimmer in the peripherals of my mind that I was a widow. However, even during the height of Charles' brutality towards me, I wouldn't have been able to bring myself to hope that he would never see America again. To be happy if he should die on some distant battlefield in Europe, and I would never even have to see his grave. But that was not to be.

As I leaned into a heavy wind, trying not to be blown over, I berated myself, as though it was my fault that the months had passed so rapidly. I felt as though I shouldn't have allowed myself to fall so easily into a routine that did not revolve around Charles, a routine that did not even include him.

I clenched my jaw tightly, to suppress the bitter taste of disappointment as it flooded my mouth. I had so liked living without being hurt….

Once, my mother caught my eye, and I suppose that she must have seen something there that I intended to hide better than I was doing. Of course, I hadn't really had much practice hiding my intimidation from my family in a year – I had had no call to.

My mother separated herself from father and came to stand next to me.

"Isn't it wonderful, Esme?" she asked, tenderly stroking my frozen cheek. "Finally, after all of these months of waiting for news, Charles is finally coming home."

I nodded absently.

Mother let her hand wander down my shoulder to my back, where she rubbed soothing circles.

"Of course, things will be a little strange for the both of you for a while. But you mustn't let that discourage you."

I didn't speak. I couldn't. I had just looked down the tracks and seen a dark cloud. It was coming closer, and now I could see a single, blinding headlight.

After a few moments of my stony silence, my mother murmured, "Just be the wonderful wife you have been all of these months, Esme. Everything will be fine."

She leaned towards me and kissed my hair and, for a moment, I nearly believed her.

"Look!" cried Mrs. Evenson.

Everyone simultaneously looked in the direction of her extended finger, which was pointing towards the oncoming train.

"Here he comes!" said Mr. Evenson enthusiastically, pulling off his hat and waving it at the train, as though there were a multitude of train stations in the vicinity, and he wanted to make sure it got the right one.

For as suddenly as the train had come into sight, it seemed to take hours for it to chug to a stop in front of us. Perhaps some higher power was giving me a few moments to say goodbye to my solitude, before throwing me back into my real life.

The steam engine finally shuddered to a halt. The way the steam puffed out and the pistons fired reminded me of a lathered horse panting for breath. A door opened and the porter jumped down, carrying a stool with him. I watched as he dropped it in place for the offloading passengers.

Very few people disembarked at this stop. An elderly woman gingerly climbed down the step, helped by the porter, who then told her which train to wait for to transfer to Columbus. A younger woman, perhaps a year or two younger than myself, climbed down and headed straight for a bench, clutching a flute case protectively in her hands, her bag strung on her arm. Harry Malcolm, bypassing the step completely, jumped down and ran to his parents, ebulliently embracing his mother and wringing his father's hand.

Charles was the last one off the train. He looked scarcely different from when he had left. His hair was shorter, cut very close to his head, and he walked with a slight limp that may have been due to the hindrance of the large bag he had slung over his shoulder, but there was something else… something I couldn't put my finger on.

He strode up to us, and his mother threw herself at him.

"Oh, Charles, Charles!" she cried, burying her face in his chest.

Charles jumped slightly, as if surprised at the sudden physical contact, and then let his bag fall so that he could hug his mother properly. He patted her on the hair awkwardly, looking at her head like he had never seen it before.

"Mother, don't," Charles said plaintively.

Mrs. Evenson pulled away, her hand over her nose and mouth, sniffling loudly.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said thickly, searching her pockets for a handkerchief. "It's just that, I haven't seen... my darling boy... in over a year!" She broke down completely, which triggered my mother's tears. Mother rushed over to Mrs. Evenson, and soon they were clutching each other, sobbing into each other's shoulders with relief.

Mr. Evenson chuckled and shook his head. "Women," he said to Charles, striding up to shake his hand.

Charles looked strangely alien from the scene that was taking place around him. I sensed that he was aware of this too, from the way he kept looking around and taking in his surroundings. When his eyes finally met mine, I finally understood what that strange glint was that I couldn't identify before.

Charles had a slightly wild look to his eyes, now. A look that said that he had seen too much death, too much carnage, too much blood.

"Esme." He said my name quietly, but everyone heard it. Our entire greeting party was suddenly tense. Both of our mothers had stemmed the flow of their tears at his voice, and Mr. Evenson dropped Charles' hand. They were all looking back and forth between the two of us, waiting to see what would happen.

Charles stepped toward me, and then suddenly there was something else in his eye. I knew, without his having to tell me, that he had killed. That he was now professionally trained how to commit murder. And I knew that the year apart had changed nothing. He still wanted to kill Carlisle. Or did he want to kill _me?_ He was more than capable, should he so decide. He knew how.

He was in front of me before I could unfreeze myself enough to step back. I found myself unable to look away from his eyes, like a deer staring down the barrel of a rifle.

"Esme," he repeated. He reached for my face, and placed his hands on either side of my jaw. He closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. He ducked his head, and his lips brushed against my ear.

"_You are still mine,"_ he whispered, so quietly that he and I were the only ones who would be able to hear his voice.

His lips were already on mine by the time it became too much for me. My legs collapsed underneath me, and I slumped against his chest in a dead faint.

* * *

**Author's Note: **And now for a shameless plug: **Kaitipoola **over at the Twilight Archives suggested that I write Chapter Four of this story from Carlisle's perspective. Well... I did! It's called "Something to Bite On," and since it's a one-shot, I figured that I would thank my reviewers here! So thanks to **Annie, SockShopping, vjd, liteblue95, amo lamias, waitsiriusly411, Ame Warashi, Dragonflame-05, arisaswordheart, Fallen Roses 07 **(who was kind enough to beta the story for me!)and **Ostenattatious30w94u34 **for reviewing!

**Annie: **::giggles:: You did it again! You mentioned SM along with me::sings, and then gasps:: MORE than Edward? Is that possible? Hmm. I guess so. Just ask Esme. You got your wish! I updated!

**Ostenattatious30w94u34: **Thank you for reviewing! Unfortunately, it's a one-shot, but you're more than welcome on this side of the fence haha!


	15. Backfire

**Author's Note: **Okay, you know the drill. I'm reeeeeally sorry for not updating much sooner than last time. In addition to the whole writing essays/applying/interviewing for colleges process, would you believe me if I said that I got sick AGAIN? Well, I did. I'm better now, though! Or maybe I should say _for_ now haha! Anyway, to make up for my lack of presence here, this chapter is longer than the ones I usually post! Yay!

Hugs and thank yous to **Annie, MissMei92, Twilighter, arisaswordheart, Belle07, Katy **(a.k.a. Twisted Willow)**, annahelenamccrae, The REAL Alice Cullen, The Universe Beyond, Forever Daydreaming **(three times!)**, NeverGoodbyeRoxas, erised-i, Fallen Roses 07, miss.dramatikkkk, bubbles907, starlighttwilight, XboredX16, **and **Mandi1** for reviewing!

**Annie:** Yeah, you're right - it's gotten worse. I tried not to write too much of it though, because it's just not fun to write. Oh, yeah, baby. Carlisle-ahoy! Well, I don't want to say for sure, because that's when my computer will go up in flames, but I'd really love to continue this story up until Alice and Jasper join the family, a.k.a. when the Cullens are whole (except for Bella, of course). I actually did think once or twice about writing Carlisle's story, but I decided that it would be too much work, and too open for error. I would never be able to find out enough about the times in which he lived, or the way that people acted for it to be really accurate and good. Thank you so much for the compliments! They make me happy ::does happy dance:: I agree completely - two of my favorite scenes in Twilight are when Bella meets Carlisle in the hospital and when she meets Esme at the house. Even the voting scene in New Moon is great, because we get to see them. :-)

**Katy: **I was simply too lazy to send you a PM (actually, I thought I could get the chapter up more quickly if I did it this way), so I'm posting my reply here! Oh yeah. Enjoy the Carlisle. Love the Carlisle. ::laughs:: Quicker? Are you kidding? And ruin my reputation? I don't think so:-D P.S. No, he doesn't have OCD (although it would be hilarious to watch him fanatically clean dishes or something), he's just an all-around creep. Hmm... I'd much prefer if _I _had a Carlisle clone, but you can have one, if you wish. ::sigh:: Shirtless Edward. ::drools on keyboard:: Okay! And Esme is more than happy to give you a hug. :-)

**annahelenamccrae: **Thank you::sigh:: Did I ever mention that I wish my name were Anna? I LOVE that name. Anyway! Thank you for the kudos! I don't actually know what they are, but I've always loved the word. :-)

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Esme Evenson, Charles Evenson, and Carlisle Cullen all belong to Stephenie Meyer ::lipsmack:: Frank, Margaret, and Isabella Bennington, and Samuel, Miriam, Franklin, and Susannah Platt all belong to me. Model T Fords... belong to lucky people. :-(

**Chapter 15. Backfire**

"No, no! _No!_

I awoke with a start. Charles was thrashing around, his arms lashing out in the darkness at an invisible assailant. The moonlight fell on the bed, and I could see that his eyes were shut tightly.

"Please, God! No! _No!_ Stay away from me!"

He kicked a foot out and caught the side of my leg. I recoiled with a hiss, clutching at my ankle. I sat up, gathering the blankets around myself, and I gently shook his shoulder.

"Get off!" He threw my hand away, sitting up in bed.

I watched him warily to see if he was awake. He was panting, looking from side to side, struggling to make out shapes.

"Charles," I whispered, laying a hand on his back again.

Charles' head whipped back to me, his eyes wide with panic. He reached out a shaking hand and laid it on the side of my face. I was almost fooled into believing that he meant to be tender.

"Esme?" he whispered.

"It's all right," I replied, rubbing circles around his back. "It wasn't real."

His breathing slowly returned to normal, and he laid his head back on his pillow. I lay back down as well, tentatively leaning my head against his shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" I whispered.

"No," he answered brusquely, staring at the ceiling.

"Are you sure?" I ventured. Perhaps if he would just talk about it….

"I said no."

This was the way it had been since Charles had returned. Nearly every night, Charles would awaken, screaming and flailing around from terrible nightmares. Or at least, what I could only assume were terrible nightmares, because he would never talk about them, no matter how many times I asked. When he awoke, he would be even more disconnected than usual, seldom even talking. I felt as though I were failing as a wife. Shouldn't I be his confidante? The one person he could talk to above all others? I had to break through to him somehow.

Charles shifted uncomfortably, pulling open the first few buttons on his pajama top. I rested my hand on the bare skin.

"You can tell me about it, Charles."

"Did you hear what I just said?"

I sighed. "It was just a dream, Charles. It wasn't real."

"I _know_ it wasn't real!" Charles snarled at me, flinging my face and hand away from himself. He sat up, glowering. "Of course it was just a dream! Don't you _think_ I know that?"

"I know it was a dream, Charles," I said, so quietly I was surprised he could hear me. I drew back from him, again hugging the sheets.

"Oh? So what is it that you think, then? You think that _I_ don't know? Do you think that I am crazy, and I can't tell fantasy from reality?" Charles' eyes were wide, and he looked slightly crazed.

"N-no," I answered.

The damage was done, though. Charles lunged for me and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me.

"Is that what you think?" He demanded, nearly shouting now. The silence of the night was shattered, and I flinched away from the loud sound. "Is that what you all think? Do think that I don't realize that you've been talking about me! You all think I'm crazy, don't you? Well, I'm not, I'm not!" He shook me harder with every word.

"That's not true!" I insisted, trying to reason with him. "No one has been talking about you Charles, honestly!"

Charles scoffed, and pushed me away. He got out of bed and went to the window, throwing it wide.

I watched him as he stood there. The warm breeze that was ruffling his hair flitted across my skin me from where I lay in bed, but instead of feeling pleasant, it chilled me, and I huddled further under the blankets.

Charles and I stayed that way for the rest of the night - him, leaning against the sill and me, watching him warily – until the sky turned colors and the sun appeared over the horizon.

* * *

"No, honestly, Sam – it's the newest make on the market. Rides like a dream."

Frank ran his hand lovingly over his Model T Ford, stroking the black paint job. Margaret glanced at me, smiling amusedly. I was surprised how easily my smile came for her. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to genuinely smile.

"A dream, huh?" My father said, looking very intrigued by the car. "What do you think, Margaret?"

Margaret stepped away from the car and linked her arm with mine.

"Oh, it's lovely, Uncle Samuel – such a thrill to drive in. I've never seen anything go so fast except a train! Even Isabella likes it."

"Hmm," said my father. Anyone who knew him could tell that that was a sign that he was quite impressed.

Margaret and I, who both knew my father very well, traded sly looks out of the corners of our eyes. Margaret twitched my arm.

"Come on, Esme," she said, jerking her head in the direction of Uncle Franklin's house. "Let's leave the men to their machines and go and see how Isabella is doing."

I agreed easily and Margaret and I walked arm in arm up the porch steps and into the house.

Uncle Franklin's house looked so strangely bare. It was as if somehow Aunt Susannah's presence had been the real décor here, rather than any furnishings or decorations. Margaret and I walked into her bedroom, where Isabella was playing on the floor with her doll, looking utterly content. She looked up when we entered.

"Mama!" she cried, throwing her arms out in unadulterated joy.

Margaret's face split into a beaming smile. "Hello, darling!" she exulted, sweeping down upon Isabella and planting a kiss on her rosy cheek. Margaret sat down on the floor with Isabella, pulling her into her lap, and I made myself at home, sitting down and leaning against the old twin bed.

From the window, which was open so that we could have heard Isabella from outside, we could hear Frank, my father, and Uncle Franklin continue to talk nonstop about the virtues of Henry Ford, from his automobiles to his ingenious employ of the assembly line.

Margaret and I sat in an impossibly warm and comfortable silence, until Isabella fell asleep against her mother's breast, still clutching her doll.

"How are you, Esme?" Margaret asked, breaking the silence gently.

I knew what she was talking about immediately, but I still avoided the subject. "Right now, or since your last visit?"

Ever since the death of Margaret's mother, Frank and Margaret had made it a point to visit regularly. I could never quite tell if this was Frank's doing, and he wanted Margaret to maintain her ties to home, or if this was Margaret's subtle way of keeping an eye on me.

"Overall," she said.

"Well, I'm very well right now," I said, still skirting the issue. "It's always so wonderful to see you, darling."

Margaret gave me a Look. "You know what I meant," she said.

I did indeed. I looked down at my hands, not speaking.

"Are things any better at all?" she asked, so hopefully that it broke my heart to smile sadly and shake my head.

"I was hoping that the time that you spent apart would… I don't know… knock some sense into him."

I chuckled humorlessly. "Sort of the opposite, really."

"What do you mean?"

Suddenly, I found myself recounting the past months since Charles' return. How disconnected he had been. How he hardly even batted an eye when I told him of the panic the entire town had been last year, during that terrible flu epidemic. How so many people had died. How we had all been afraid to leave the house, and how suddenly, people with whom we had spent our entire lives would flee if they saw us so much as cough in the street from the dust kicked up by a horse. How I had fallen ill, and been too weak to stand; how I had coughed up blood. I told her about his nightmares.

Margaret's brow was crinkled by the time I fell silent, fiddling with my fingers.

"I… I don't profess to know Charles particularly well," she said thoughtfully. "But the behavior you have been describing… it seems so unlike him. Am I correct?"

I nodded without looking up.

"What about…?" It was Margaret's turn to look away. She seemed to be struggling for words.

I wished I didn't have to answer. I knew what she was asking, and I would have given anything not to have to tell her that Charles had not changed in that regard. If anything, he had gotten worse. Or perhaps it just seemed worse to me, having to see my skin change colors again, after becoming so used to my regular complexion. Maybe this was Charles' form of revenge for what happened the last night that we were together before he left. Maybe he felt the need to show me that he still dominated me.

Whatever the reason, I couldn't stand to let Margaret's hopes down. I didn't want to have to see the look of horror and disgust on her face that she had had when she had first found out. So, I very obviously changed the subject.

"It's getting towards evening. I should probably help Mother with supper."

Margaret nodded and drew a corner of her mouth up. "Yes, let's both go see what we can do."

Margaret was a Godsend.

I stood, brushing my dress off. Margaret ever-so-gently lifted Isabella into her arms and laid her into bed.

She turned to me and we locked eyes. I don't know how long we stayed that way. Silently, we came to a compromise not to think about my problems tonight. Margaret flashed a brilliant grin at me and looped her arm into mine.

I found myself smiling whole-heartedly, and we skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen like we were teenagers.

"Mother?" I called to the empty kitchen. There was no answer.

I looked at Margaret and she shrugged.

"Maybe she's outside," she suggested.

We walked outside and around to where our fathers still stood with Frank.

"Father," I called before they came into view around the corner of the house. "Do you know where Moth-" My voice died with a choking sound.

Charles raised his gaze from the car hood to my eyes. I stood, frozen to the ground. Charles hated it when I raised my voice for anything. He told me that it made me sound like a barmaid.

I finally tore my eyes away from his and noticed that Frank was looking at me very strangely, his eyebrows pulled together.

"Yes, Esme, your mother went to the store – she ran out of something or other."

The sound of my father's voice startled me. I had forgotten what I had even asked. I could feel Charles' stern eyes burning into my face, though I refused to look at him.

"W-well," I said quietly, "Margaret and I will just wait inside for her then, I suppose." Anything to get away from Charles.

"Wait, not yet, Esme," interrupted my uncle. "You have got to hear this engine!" He looked so enthusiastic that I wouldn't have been able to leave had Charles been brandishing a carving knife at me, so I smiled and glanced at Margaret quickly.

Uncle Franklin strode to the driver's side of the truck and opened the door, leaning into the cab. I was admittedly quite curious about this truck. It was certainly an odd-looking thing, but it still appealed to my eye, although not quite in the way that buildings and houses did. I watched as Uncle Frank pulled something and twisted something else inside and then climbed back out.

Father and Charles stepped back and watched. Frank came over to the two of us and put his arm around Margaret. They traded a smile.

Uncle Franklin was leaning over, looking at the front of the car and holding onto a lever sticking out of the front.

"Now, which way do I turn this again, Frank?" he asked.

Before Frank could answer, however, Uncle Franklin gave the lever a strong push downwards.

"No! That's the wrong way!" Frank started to shout.

BANG!

A deafening crack split the autumn air. I let out a scream. Uncle Franklin's arm was thrown backwards, and he clutched at it, hissing between his teeth.

"GET DOWN!" Charles bellowed. He pulled my father to his knees, and then covered his own head with his arms.

Everyone fell silent. We all looked at Charles in alarm. No one seemed to know what to make of Charles' reaction. It wasn't until Charles looked up slightly and I could see the fear in his eyes that I broke out of the haze of surprise.

I hurried to his side, kneeling down in the grass next to him, and took his face in my hands.

"Charles, are you all right?" I breathed, brushing his hair away from his face.

"I-I," I had never heard Charles speak without knowing exactly what he was going to say.

Uncle Franklin finally broke the near-silence, letting out a light laugh.

"You didn't need to panic, Charles," he said, obviously trying to sound bracing. "I guess I just turned the crankshaft the wrong way, and well, that's what happens!"

At the sound of Uncle Franklin's laughter, Charles' expression abruptly changed. His eyes flashed from uncertainty and fear to unadulterated fury. And his eyes found their target in me.

"I'm fine." He said shortly. He stood, and I was surprised that he offered me his hand. I accepted it and stood.

Charles behaved as if nothing had just happened. "May I have a word with you inside the house, sweetheart?" He asked me, smiling placidly and stroking my hand.

"Of course," I murmured, completely baffled.

I followed Charles into the house without looking over my shoulder to see the look of confusion that I knew must be on Margaret's face as well.

Once inside, Charles quickly turned to me and slapped me across the face before I could shield myself.

"What did you think you were doing out there?" he demanded, taking a step towards me angrily. I stepped back. He snarled at me.

"Did you not see the look on your father's face? What do you suppose he thinks now? He thinks that I am a coward! That I need to be protected by a woman!" Charles swiped at me again, but this time I side-stepped him, bumping into a table with a lamp on it. The table swayed, and I had to turn quickly to prevent the lamp from crashing to the ground and breaking.

Suddenly, I felt my hair being pulled back until I was forced to tip my head back. I could feel Charles' teeth graze my ear as he spoke.

"I don't know exactly what notions you got into your head while I was away, but I assure you, _love,_ that you can abandon them. You belong to _me, not_ the other way around. Don't you _dare_ ever behave like that again."

He pushed me away from him, and I fell to the floor.

A door latched.

Charles and I both looked up. My mother was standing in the doorway, clutching a loaf of bread to her chest. She was staring at the two of us, frozen.

Charles laughed.

"Poor darling," he murmured, bending down and sweeping me up into his arms in one fluid movement. He turned me to face him and brushed my hair gently back into place.

"What happened?" my Mother asked, standing rooted in place.

"She tripped over that table you've got there," said Charles sympathetically, gesturing vaguely to the table I had indeed, crashed into after he shoved me. "I'm afraid I couldn't catch her before she hit the ground." He leaned towards me and placed a delicate kiss on the end of my nose.

I glanced at my mother. She was smiling slightly, now much more relaxed. I looked down at the floor, unable to speak.

"Oh, yes, that table is new," mother said, her eyes sweeping at the table and the askew lampshade.

"Esme is such a creature of habit, it's no wonder she tripped," said Charles fondly, now petting the side of my face. I wanted to cry. "How she survived without me all of these months I just can't fathom."

"It wasn't easy for any of us, Charles," said mother.

Charles sighed heavily, and then turn to face her. "Yes, well, I'm back now," he said, smiling widely. He turned and tossed a glance at me over his shoulder.

"And I plan to stay."

* * *

"Happy Holidays, Esme."

I looked around, startled. Frank was standing a few feet away from me in the early morning sun, hands in his pockets. I had sneaked out of my house quietly, hoping to enjoy the fresh winter air before Charles awoke and the day had to start. I wandered aimlessly and found myself in my Uncle's yard, which wasn't very far at all.

Frank smiled at me.

"Early riser too, eh?" he asked kindly.

I nodded, unable to repress a smile.

"Always have been," I said.

It was so easy to talk to Frank. He never said condescending things that put me in my place, or made jokes at Margaret's or my expense. Whenever he spoke about anything serious, even if it was an uncomfortable topic, like Aunt Susannah's death, it was never awkward, because I could always sense his complete sincerity.

Frank started to walk towards where I was standing slowly. "Isabella always tends to keep us up, and I wanted to let Margaret sleep while she could," he explained.

I nodded. I wished that I could tell him how much I wanted to thank him for the way he took care of his wife and daughter. Seeing Margaret's happiness allowed me a brief vacation into a contented life.

Frank stopped in front of me and looked around at the bare field dusted lightly with snow.

"Going my way?" he asked.

I laughed.

We began walking together, trudging slowly over the stumps of dead wheat, not particularly caring where we were going. I enjoyed the comfortable silence; it felt so safe. After a few moments, I looked up from the ground and let out a laugh. Frank looked up curiously.

We had ended up in front of the car in question, gleaming gloriously in the light. I looked at it and sighed, perhaps a little wistfully.

"Do you like it?" Frank asked.

"Very much," I nodded. "It must be so nice to be able to go anywhere you want when you want to." I looked over at Frank and saw him watching me intently.

"Would you like to go for a ride?" he asked.

My eyes widened. Uncle Franklin had purchased an automobile not long after the incident a few months ago, but I had never ridden in it. "Oh, no!" I said, shocked.

"Why not?"

I struggled for a moment. "B-because! I couldn't just drive off." I cast around for a reason why, and the only answer I could think of was, "Charles will be waking soon."

"We're not driving off to have a mad, passionate affair at the Popped Keg Tavern, Esme," said Frank dryly. "We'll just drive into town – I'll even let you drive."

My head snapped over to stare at him. Was he mad?

"I don't know how to drive!"

"I'll teach you. It's very simple."

I mouthed wordlessly, emitting a few squeaks. Frank leaned in confidentially. His eyes were sparkling with a gleam I could have sworn he had borrowed from Margaret.

"You know you want to," he said teasingly.

"Well… well what if I hurt my arm like Uncle Franklin? Then what?" There. Finally I had come up with a decent excuse.

"I'll start the engine. All you'll need to do is the actual driving part." He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me towards the car. I dragged my feet in the dirt. When we reached the driver's side door, he stopped.

"You'll love it," he promised.

I sighed.

"Fine," I agreed reluctantly.

"Excellent," Frank said, his grin back in place. "Climb in." He opened the door in a grand, sweeping gesture.

I climbed inside clumsily, scooping my skirts up around my legs.

"Here, sorry," Frank apologized, leaning over me, turned a key, and pulled a lever.

Frank walked around to the front of the car, flashed a smile at me through the glass, and leaned down. After a few moments, I heard the roar of the engine. I jumped wildly. Frank climbed in on the passenger side and closed the door.

"You ready?" He asked excitedly.

Twenty minutes and many screams from me later, we sat in front of the grocery store in town, laughing hysterically. I was most likely laughing hysterically because I was terrified out of my mind, and Frank was probably laughing hysterically because he seemed to think that my ineptness was a veritable riot. I eventually controlled myself enough to nudge Frank playfully on the shoulder.

"Stop that!" I demanded, which served only to redouble his mirth.

Frank eventually sobered up when I climbed out of the car in a huff, insisting that I would rather walk home than ever sit in the same truck as him again. He tried to placate me by telling me about the first time that Margaret had ever driven, and then had to resort to talking about his first time driving. He finally managed to convince me to return to the truck after promising to drive home.

"You know you really didn't do that badly, for your first time," he said conversationally when he was behind the steering wheel and I was safely on the other side of the car. Now that Frank was driving, I was surprised to find myself taking pleasure in the smooth ride. "You caught onto the hand controls very quickly. It was the gear shifts on the floor that you had more trouble with."

"Well, you could have _told_ me that one of them makes the car go backwards," I said gloomily.

Frank looked away from the road for a moment to smile apologetically at me. I reluctantly giggled. Frank's smile turned into a beam. I could no longer be angry with him, and I smiled back.

We drove in silence for a while. I looked out of the window, feeling the exhilaration of the chilly wind in my hair.

"Esme," said Frank. I could sense a hesitation in his voice.

"Yes?" I asked, by forehead crinkling.

Frank sighed heavily. He no longer looked at all carefree. On the contrary, he looked deadly serious.

"How are you and Charles doing?" He asked, again looking at me significantly.

I froze. How did he know? Had Margaret told him? No. She had sworn to me countless times that she wouldn't tell anyone. I stared at him incredulously, unable to speak. He took in my expression in less than one second.

"That's what I thought," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"We're doing fine," I said quickly, but a little too late.

Frank looked at me witheringly. "Don't give me that, Esme," he said scornfully. "Did you honestly believe that I didn't know? I, a medical doctor?"

"When did she tell you? Why did Margaret tell you?!" I cried, my voice rising shrilly. I could feel my throat closing off as the feeling of betrayal coursed through me.

Frank suddenly pulled the car alongside the road and looked over at me, eyes pained. "Margaret knows?" he asked quietly.

I was stopped in my tracks. There was heartbreak in his voice that I had not expected. We looked into each other's eyes, and in that moment, it was as though we could see through each other's minds. Neither of us had to say anything, but I knew that Frank would give anything not to have Margaret feel my pain vicariously, as we both knew she did. And Frank somehow knew everything that went on behind closed doors between Charles and me.

Frank sighed again. "You don't have to tell me anything, Esme," he said, catching me off guard. "Just know this: you are not the first woman that I have seen in this position."

My mouth fell open slightly. That was so surreal to fathom; never did I feel more alone in the universe than when Charles treated me the way he did. Frank misinterpreted my surprise.

"No, no. I don't know any of them personally. But I am a doctor… and sometimes you see things you don't want to see." There was a haunted look in his eyes, and I compulsively reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. Frank looked at me and smiled, chuckling quietly.

"My point is, Esme, I have seen women like you, seen them repeatedly, because unlike you they seek treatment for their injuries. And not one of them has left their husband. Not one. I don't understand what it is, _why_ they allow this inhumanity to continue, but there you are. Abused women can almost _never_ leave." He looked at me intensely, with a fire in his eyes. "Then, one by one, they stop coming. Some of them are prevented from returning once their husbands find out. Some of them are too ashamed to show up twice. And some of them… some of them don't make it back to the hospital in time for us to save them."

Frank fell silent. I felt a twisting in my stomach. There had been times when the pain had been so bad that I believed that I would die before the night was through. I hoped that it did not show on my face.

"I don't know how to make myself any clearer on this, Esme," Frank finished, staring out the windshield. "Just remember what I said."

We drove home in silence, my thoughts in a maze.

* * *

I was bleeding uncontrollably out of my leg. Charles had thrown me through a window, and I was helpless to stop the blood. I had run away until my leg gave out, and now I could see Columbus Hospital just a few hundred feet in front of me. I dragged myself along the ground, leaving a trail of blood behind me. I was almost to the doorstep, and I held back a scream of agony. Carlisle was standing right outside the door, watching my progress.

"Esme?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes!" I mouthed, but no sound came out. A wave of fear rushed over me. I tried to speak again.

"Please help me! I'm dying!"

Nothing.

I screamed silently at Carlisle, trying to get him to understand. The pain mounted and I had to stop and clutch my wound.

Carlisle looked intently at my hands. "Is that blood?" he asked.

I nodded vigorously. Carlisle stepped forward. I reached for his outstretched hand, but just when we were about to touch, I heard Frank's voice echoing in my head.

"_You didn't make it in time."_

Then, the hospital, Carlisle, the stoop, everything vanished.

I was back in Charles' house, and he was standing over me with a revolver in his hand.

"It's his, isn't it?!" he shouted at me.

"What's his?" I mouthed desperately. "I don't know what you're talking about! Please, no!"

"_Liar,"_ breathed Charles, leveling the revolver at me.

He pulled the trigger.

"NO!" I screamed.

I sat straight up in bed, my hair plastered to my face.

Charles grunted and turned over next to me. It was early morning. I was covered in sweat, and I was panting as though I had just run a mile. It took me a moment to realize that I was shaking uncontrollably. I gathered the blankets around myself, only to throw them off and jump out of bed.

I ran down the hall as fast as I could and tore into the bathroom.

As it was, I only just made it to the sink before my stomach contracted and I retched.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So? You like, you like? You hate, you hate? Oh, and I forgot to mention at the beginning on the chapter: just so we stay on top of things, a shirtless Edward and a hug from Esme to **Twisted Willow, **a wet, shirtless Carlisle for **Fallen Roses 07, **and **erised-i's Mom's **leftovers for **me!!**


	16. Darkness

**Author's Note: **Thank you guys so much for waiting so long for this chapter! I'm so incredibly sorry that it took so long, but for those of you who saw my Author's Note (before it mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth), you know why. For those of you who didn't see it (which is probably good, because I had to endure the humiliation of mistakenly calling Alfred Hitchcock _Albert_ Hitchcock), the reason it has taken me so long is because my computer crashed. I was terribly fortunate to have printed off my story (including the long-awaited Chapter 16) a few days beforehand, due to a serendipitous if unprecedented moment of foresight on my part, so all was not lost. Anyway, I'm back up and running, so hopefully this won't happen again! You guys have all waited so long, so I won't dawdle. :-)

Thanks to **MissMei92; Twilighter; Belle07; azvamplover; The RaVen; Twisted Willow; Mandi1; miss.dramatikkkk (twice); simplyme88; Forever Daydreaming (twice); starlightwilight (twice); annahelenamccrea; imagine purple; erised-i (twice); NellieGURL; NeverGoodbyeRoxas; arisaswordheart; bkwrmgrl87; SockShopping (twice); Angela; Annie; kelsie (twice); LovingMyDoctor; idyllic nocturne; addicted.2.twilight (twice); harem (twice); Alice Brooks; doing 25 life in azkaban; bubbles907; AneleTiger (three times!); Fallen Roses 07 (twice); KlutzLike Bella; SWEET-STUFF063; Mirane; Isabel Hale; Luvs-Mitchel-Musso; nekoearlover; Cecilia has a pen; bloody ampersand; ANGELA; lavanja; Lon-Dubh; Iris Oulle; yasioasasi; Holli7555; ObsessedwithTwilight; **and** orlibluver **for reviewing! Whew! I think I responded to all of you, but if I forgot anybody, I sincerely apologize. There were a ton of you! Talk about moral support! My responses to anonymous reviewers are below.

**The RaVen: **Ciao, RaVen! No ti preoccupato su il tuo inglese - e' molto bene! (Sfortunamente, non posso dire lo stesso sul mi'italiano!) Sono molto felice che hai deciso leggere la mia storia per migliorare il tuo inglese - forse dovrei leggere un po' di fanfiction italiano! Anyway, enough of my terrible Italian! Haha, yeah, I'm bad and haven't gotten all of my chapters up over there yet. While it _is_ true that Esme wouldn't have married Carlisle if it hadn't been for Charles... I don't really feel too hard pressed to thank him. I don't know, maybe I'm just bitter. :-D

**Angela: **Hi! I'm not sure if you're the same Angela who reviewed later on, so I'm going to reply separately, just in case. :-) Thank you for reviewing! I'm really pleased that you like it, and _really _pleased that you mentioned SM, because that makes me feel good. :-) I hope you like this chapter!

**Annie: **Thanks for the hug::hugs back:: So how are your computer problems going? I've been having my own over the past few months. ::giggles conspiratorially:: Don't tell anyone yet! It doesn't officially come out until this chapter (though I guess it was kind of obvious, wasn't it?) I would really like to do Carlisle's perspective of when he meets Esme for the second time. I would have to write it from Esme's point of view first, though, so I know what happens (it's easier to get the scene from her before Carlisle). I think I would be terrified to take on the great and terrible POV that is Edward, though. I really think that SM needs to write Carlisle's story, too. As well as Alice's. In fact, she should probably just do them all. Squee! That _was_ a lovely thing you said, though. :-)

**kelsie: **Hey! Again, I don't know if you're the same kelsie who reviewed later, so I'm going to respond separately, just to guarantee there's no confusion. I have a tendency to check stories every half hour to an hour when I really want them to be updated! It's like I can _will_ them into being. I think you're awesome, too. :-)

**ANGELA: **Here's the other Angela. I do wonder if you're the same person... Anyway, I actually updated for real this time, so it's more than just a boring Author's Note! Isn't it great?? (Great that it's not a boring AN, that is. I'm not saying that I think the chapter's great or anything.) ... Just wanted to clear that up. :-)

**lavanja: **Here it is! The wait wasn't too terribly long between the note and the chapter, was it? I'm glad you liked the note, though... even though I said Albert instead of Alfred, which is kind of embarrassing. Sort of like mistranslating the word "condoned" on your SATs and then using it wrong in your essay so that you contradict that point you're trying to make... not that that's ever happened to me or anything... Maybe I'd better stop talking now.

**kelsie: **Here's the other one! I'm really glad I can keep updating, too. It was looking for a while like I wouldn't be able to continue with this story until I got a computer in college - in September::wipes brow:: Dodged that bullet.

Okay, now for the award-giving: more oreos for **MissMei92,** even if she prefers McFlurries to blizzards; an Emmett for **The RaVen** (Rosalie never has to find out); a mountain lion for **Twisted Willow, **because Edward is feeling testy; a squeel-muffler for **Mandi1, **so her students don't think she's crazy (on my account, at least!); a shirtless Edward for **SockShopping,** along with a new wand, because she lost her old one; a Margaret for **DarlingKittyStar **just because it's Wednesday and because she deserves onea trampoline for **harem,** just in case; a Charles for **Mirane** for her to rip to shreds, as well as any previously delegated prizes, such as Carlisles, Edwads, and chocolate goodies, because she missed out on those previous offers; a cookie for **Isabel Hale, **because one good turn deserves another; a Slytherin scarf for **Fallen Roses 07, **because she prefers them to Gryffindor scarves; some paper towels for **starlightwilight, **with which to mop up the milk; a Margaret for **Holli7555, **because she deserves one, too; and finally, because everyone has been so wonderful and supportive (and I would love you guys even if you hadn't been more patient than Bella in the meadow of the next-to-the-last chapter of Eclipse), I have another collective prize! Because everyone seemed so enamored with him after last chapter, a tousel-haired Frank for **everyone**!! (Did I mention that he's gorgeous? Dark hair, blue eyes, unbelievable smile...

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Esme Evenson, Charles Evenson, Carlisle Cullen, and Esme's unborn child all belong to Stephenie Meyer, who just celebrated her birthday!! Happy Birthday, Stephenie! Samuel and Miriam Platt, Frank and Margaret Bennington, and Franklin Platt all belong to me.

**Chapter 16. Darkness**

"It's his, isn't it?"

"What's his? Please, God, no!"

My eyes snapped open. Again, I was covered in cold sweat and I felt ill. It took a few moments before I could recall my surroundings. Sunlight was streaming into my eyes, and I shielded myself from the light while waiting for the nausea to pass.

With a jolt, I realized where I was. I sat straight up, the blood rushing to my head and causing my stomach to roll.

I was sitting in the armchair I had fallen into in weariness some uncertain amount of time ago. I twisted around in my seat to glance at the clock. I gasped. It was nearly five o'clock - Charles would be leaving the office in fifteen minutes. I hadn't finished with the laundry, let completely alone begin to cook supper. I jumped to my feet.

This, clearly, was a mistake. My stomach lurched, and I clamped a hand over my mouth, darting for the basin in the kitchen.

I clung to the side of the sink, my stomach heaving weakly. I felt the cold and clammy prickling on my forehead which had become so familiar over the past couple of weeks. When my stomach finally finished emptying itself, I rinsed out the sink and straightened up, wiping my mouth exhaustedly.

I leaned against the sink for a moment, collecting myself. I would just have to sacrifice the laundry for now and focus on supper. Charles was much less likely to notice unfinished clothing than an unfinished meal. With greater effort than it should have taken me, I shoved myself away from the sink and began shuffling around the room, collecting vegetables, cooking utensils, and spices from their various locations.

I made my was slowly back to the counter and dropped my burdens there, leaning myself against it for support.

For the past two weeks, I had been overcome by fatigue at random intervals, and I frequently found myself needing to rest. I assumed that it was from a lack of sleep. I had been having terrible nightmares that plagued me no matter where or when I slept. Not to mention the wretched stomach sickness that I had come down with. I was furious that I had allowed myself to become so lax in my duties as to fall asleep just from a moment's rest.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Immediately, I saw Charles' face flash across my eyelids, brandishing the pistol at me. I flinched away from the vision, reopening my eyes. Ever since the first night, I had been too afraid to see the dream through to the end, terrified that one night, the gunshot would become real, and I wouldn't wake. I always tried to say something different in my dream, although my words always came out in so much breath, and no voice at all. Every time, I tried to crawl faster. I reached out to Carlisle more desperately, praying that he would understand faster. I felt a desperate helplessness that I couldn't even escape Charles in my sleep anymore. He was an all-pervading presence in my life. He was my worst fear in waking, and my worst nightmare in sleep.

I pushed myself away from the countertop, turning slowly and beginning to chop up the vegetables. I dumped them unceremoniously into a pot of water and set them on the stove to boil. By this time, the clock had chimed five o'clock, and I hurriedly set about making biscuits.

I dropped them onto a sheet and thrust them into the oven. Then, I snatched up the laundry basket and dashed outside, hanging out clothes up as quickly as possible.

No matter how I raced, though, it couldn't possibly have been fast enough. I heard the front door open and close.

My heart automatically stopped.

"Esme."

Even from outside, I could hear the anger in Charles' voice drift through the open window.

The shirt I was pinning up slipped from between my fingers, and I began quivering all over. My breath came in small gasps.

"Come in here, please," Charles' voice continued.

My breaths soon turned into tiny sobs, and I wrapped my arms around one of the clothes poles, clinging to it with all of my might.

Charles has always frightened me, but I hadn't been this... _petrified_ at the thought of him hitting me for as long as I could remember. I slid down the pole, my sobs gaining strength and intensity as I touched the grass.

"Oh, please, oh please," I gasped, pressing my face to the rough wood. "Please don't hurt me."

His eyes narrowed. "Come in here," he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

I forcefully slowed my breathing, wiping my eyes as I stood shakily. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment before walking slowly into the kitchen.

I pulled myself by one arm, the other attempting to stem the flow of blood seeping from my leg. Carlisle looked down at me, his eyebrows pulled together.

"Esme?" he asked uncertainly.

"Carlisle! I'm bleeding!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, but no sound came out.

"Look! Blood!" I withdrew my hand from the wound for the briefest of moments, showing him the blood.

Carlisle gasped and took one step forward. I reached for him with everything in me, but Frank was already whispering.

"_You didn't make it in time."_

My hand closed around nothing.

Instead I was looking straight at the revolver in Charles' hand.

"It's his, isn't it?!" he shouted at me.

"No, please!" I mouthed. "Please don't hurt me!"

Looking into Charles' eyes was like looking down two twin wells. He took aim.

Anger coursed through my veins like fire. I saw red. "NO!" I screamed, my voice bursting, raw and animalistic from my throat, and the sound of it startled both of us. "You can't!"

"I'd rather see you dead than see you give birth to another man's child," Charles cried.

Then he shot.

"What are you doing?"

I turned, surprised.

"Making supper," I answered meekly.

Charles stared at me like I had just uttered something absurd.

"And why, pray tell, are you doing that?" he asked,

"I..." I was deeply confused. Was this a trap Charles was trying to lead me into?

Charles quickly became frustrated with my silence. "Your parents, Esme! Your parents!"

I gasped. Of course! We were having supper with my parents this evening; how had I forgotten?

Perhaps I shouldn't ask myself that.

"I forgot," I murmured.

"Hmm," said Charles. He eyed me up and down "Well, you cannot go in that."

I looked down at my simple, yet wrinkled, housedress.

"I'll go change," I suggested, turning to go.

"Why don't you turn the stove off first? Unless you want to burn the house down while we're gone?" Charles suggested, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I reached behind me and shut the burner off, then I lowered my head and walked past Charles as swiftly as possible.

I threw open the doors of our new wardrobe and snatched the first suitable dress. I pulled my first dress over my head and slipped the other one on in its place. Then, I chose some makeup powder from a drawer and carefully applied it to my face until it concealed the bruise blossoming over my cheek. I closed the wardrobe door and, as the mirror on the door flashed past me, I caught something in its reflection. I jumped wildly and spun around to face my husband.

Charles strolled towards me, then he reached up and brushed my hair back behind my shoulders. One hand moved to where the bruise was, hidden from sight. He tilted his head slightly.

"You should come when I call you," he whispered sadly. I looked away from his eyes fearfully. I might be able to hide the marks he made upon my skin, but how long would I be able to hide what was growing inside of me?

"We- we'll be late," I whispered.

Charles exhaled, then he released me and walked toward the door. I followed in his shadow.

"Hello!"

My mother greeted us enthusiastically at the door, smiling widely as she kissed Charles and embraced me. I clung to the back of her dress like a child, never wanting to let go.

"How are you, darling?" She asked me, holding me at arms' length.

Unable to answer truthfully, I held her close again and breathed into her hair, "Mother."

Charles shook hands with my father, who was standing close by, and made small talk as I followed my mother into the kitchen to help her bring the dishes out.

As I carefully picked up the platter of chicken, my mother looked me up and down, sighing happily.

"My goodness, Esme! You're positively glowing! Have you been spending more time outdoors?"

I looked away guiltily. Fear was mounting inside my chest like an immense pressure. How long would it be until he found out?

"Yes, perhaps," I mumbled.

Mother was thoughtful. "Hmm," she said, leading the way into the dining room. "Well maybe you should consider planting a garden, dear. There is nothing so rewarding as planting seeds and watching them grow."

"Watching what grow?" asked Father, looking up from his conversation with Charles.

"Plants, dear," answered Mother, setting her dishes of potatoes and greens next to mine.

"Mmm," responded Father. "For a moment I though you were talking about some grandchildren for you and me."

I froze, halfway sitting. Charles chuckled and smiled indulgently at me.

Mother's eyes lit up. "Yes," she breathed. "You know, _that's_ quite rewarding, too."

"Yes, what say you, Charles? A pretty little girl running around the place?"

"The pitter-patter of little feet," my mother rejoined.

"That sounds lovely," said Charles, still smiling broadly. "Don't you think so, Esme, darling?"

I nodded, forcing a smile into place.

"Or a son," my mother breathed excitedly, looking at me. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, Esme? A darling boy following you around by your apron strings? Helping you around the house?"

"Well, if it were a boy," Charles said suddenly, "He would have to spend a great deal of his time with me."

"That's right," exclaimed my father, nodding approvingly at Charles. "Learn the way of the attorney, eh? 'Evenson and Son.' Just imagine that!"

"'Evenson and Son_s_,'" corrected Charles, stressing the plural.

I listened in silence to the horrifying conversation taking place around the table. This couldn't be happening. Charles was sitting next to me, his arm on the back of my chair, casually planning the life of children we hadn't even conceived yet! What would happen when he found out about our real child? The one I had only realized existed last night?

Charles glanced over at me, and misinterpreted my expression of woe.

"Of course, we'll have to have a daughter for Esme, here, won't we?" Charles asked fondly, stroking the same cheek that he had struck when we were alone the night before. I felt sick. I could hardly speak throughout the rest of supper, and I spread my food around my plate as well as I could, so that it would look as though I ate.

My parents followed us out onto the porch as we were saying our good-byes. I stared unseeingly out into the distance.

_What am I going to do? What in heaven's name can I do?_ The words repeated in my head like a mantra, echoing, ricocheting off the corners of my mind.

Mother kissed Charles' cheek once more.

"You'll be an outstanding father, Charles," she said, "Just be as wonderful a father to your children as you are a husband to Esme, and everything will turn out beautifully."

I looked up, shocked. I watched as Charles chuckled and thanked my mother, before taking me by the arm and steering me down the steps. I stumbled as I walked, not paying any attention to where we were going. There was no way that I could allow Charles to treat our child the way he treated me. I knew that he would, there was no question about it. It would only be a matter of time. My eyes burned. I _couldn't_ let that happen!

I _wouldn't_ let that happen.

My jaw hardened as I realized what had to be done. Charles wouldn't ever come near our child - no, _my_ child.

He would never even find out about it.

The clock in the parlor chimed ten o'clock. I lay in bed, next to Charles, my heart pounding. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting every second that passed. I would have to wait until Charles had been asleep for a while. I could not simply get up and leave as soon as he dropped off to sleep, or he would quickly re-awaken.

After what seemed like an eternity, Charles' breathing slowed and deepened. I stole a glance over at him. His eyes were closed, but they were still moving. I was afraid to move a single muscle; to breathe too deeply. I waited, motionless, listening to the clock chime every quarter hour. Finally, as the clock chimed ten forty-five, I moved my hand ever-so-slightly. I lifted a corner of the bedspread, but that was all I found myself able to do.

My heartbeat accelerated - the only part of myself that moved. I simply could not bring myself to budge, try as I might. Perhaps this was a bad idea. Charles would certainly awaken, and what would he do when he found me halfway out the door? And after that, he would never let me out of his sight, paranoid that I would flee from him the moment his back was turned.

It would be much more sensible to wait until he left for work in the morning, I reasoned with myself. That way, he would be out of the house, out of the entire vicinity, and I could make good my escape without needing to catch my breath at the creak of every floorboard.

It would prove much wiser to let my scheme rest until the next day, or maybe even the day after that. That way, I would have a chance to tell my parents goodbye, subtly, at least.

I sighed and closed my eyes.

Frank whispered in my ear, _"Abused women can _never _leave."_

I caught my breath.

No, that's not what he had said.

He had said that they _almost_ never leave.

I looked over at Charles. Then, as the clock began to mournfully ring eleven times, I slipped out of bed without a sound.

I recalled from my childhood years of experience with sneaking out of the house in the dead of the night. I looked longingly at my wardrobe, wishing that I would at least collect a change of clothes, but I knew that my chanced of being caught would increase exponentially if I dawdled. Carefully, stepping along the seams of the floorboards, I tiptoed to the door. I twisted the handle and pulled the door towards me.

_Squeeeak._

I stopped in my tracks. I shut my eyes tightly, struggling to remember what to do in the event of a creaky hinge.

"_Just pull it toward you really fast," _Margaret's voice sounded in my head.

With a small gust of wind, the door opened silently.

I carefully avoided the throw rug at the base of the door, not being able to see where the floorboards came together beneath it.

I swiftly rushed down the hallway, my nightgown billowing behind me. My heart was pounding faster than ever as I reached the kitchen, seizing a garden coat that I had left hanging on the hat rack. I painstakingly pulled the kitchen door towards its hinges, so that it wouldn't scrape against the latch, and pulled it open.

I stepped out into the chilly night air and closed the door behind me.

Then, I looked around to make sure that nothing was astir. I leapt from the small porch and took off into the night, running aimlessly into the darkness.

I ran until my breath came in short, painful bursts, until my eyes were stinging and watering from the chilly breeze. Presently, my foot caught a root, and I went sprawling along the ground.

I pulled myself onto my knees, the wind completely knocked out of me. I gasped for breath, resting for a moment on the ground. I rose and looked around for the direction in which I had been headed.

I turned on the spot, my head swiveling around for some landmark, something to guide my way.

A twig snapped in the distance.

I cried out softly, then clamped my hands over my mouth.

The breeze blew, and the blowing of the blossoms on the tress sounded like fabric brushing against itself.

My eyes were now watering for another reason as I forced myself to softly say, "Who's there?"

Nothing answered me.

Quiet gasps shook my body as I desperately turned in circles, looking for the way I had come.

I walked uncertainly forward. The night was overcast; the moon was new, and I was nearly blind. I cursed myself for not bringing a candle, but how could I have?

Sobbing openly but silently now, I made myself walk in a single direction. For all I knew I could have been going in circles.

The wind blew again, and the night was alive with the motion of creatures unknown all around me.

"Oh, please help me," I whispered pathetically, dragging my feet uncertainly along the ground. "Oh, please!"

I held my arms out in front of me, waving them wildly in all directions.

Something caught hold of my dress.

My entire body convulsed in fear and I turned, gathering up my skirt and pulling at them with all of my might, crying out in fear.

"No, no!"

I could make out a dim outline of something next to me. I kicked out my leg at my assailant.

My foot hit something hard. Something solid. Something definitely not human.

I stopped where I was. Cautiously, I reached out a hand, searching.

"Oh!"

It was a gate! I stepped forward eagerly, feeling along the wooden surface My gown was caught on the latch of the gate. Gently this time, I freed my skirt and ran my fingers along the thick piece of wood holding the gate in place.

I gasped. My fingers hesitantly traced over the indentations in the wood. I knew somehow what they spelled.

M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T.

This was Uncle Franklin's gate! How had I come this far? I didn't know, but I didn't care. I lifted the latch and pulled the gate aside. This gate would lead right up to his barn, from where I could easily collect a lantern.

I sprinted along the fence, sliding my hand along the wood, feeling like I was holding hands with it.

Soon, the grass turned to mud, and I knew that I was nearing the building. I slowed, holding my free hand out in front of me.

When I touched the wood of the barn, I let out a breath I didn't know that I had been holding.

I let go of the fence and rested my face against the sturdy structure, embracing it tenderly.

I slid along the wood until I came to the door. I pulled it open with some difficulty and slipped inside.

The inside of Uncle Franklin's barn was somehow darker than the night outside, as though the darkness were compressed in here, but I knew my way around the barn like it was my room at home... my parents' home.

I turned to my right and walked confidently forward a few paces; then I stretched a hand out in front of me. As expected, I touched a wooden shelf. I rummaged around and soon felt the outline of a lantern. I pulled it off the shelf and hugged it to me like it was a beloved doll.

Where were the matches?

"_Separate the lock from the key."_

"That's right," I breathed. Uncle Franklin used to say that, worrying that one of Margaret's "brilliant" schemes would absolutely necessitate the use of an oil lamp. He would wink at me and then place the matches... where?

Surprisingly calm, I headed for his work bench.

"Ouch!" With a loud sound, I walked straight into something very solid. I had no idea what it could be, but I felt my way around it until I reached my destination. I pulled open one drawer after another until I found a box of matches.

I struck a match and squinted at the sudden burst of light. It took a few matches before my eyes were adjusted enough to see my way to lighting the lantern.

Once the lantern was lit, I breathed a sigh of relief. I held up the light and turned to survey the room.

Uncle Franklin's truck reflected the light back at me. So that was what I had run into.

My breathing picked up. Slowly, not completely sure what was going on in my own mind, I opened the passenger door to the truck.

A soft click froze me where I was. I turned my head almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to see the barrel of a rifle pointing at me.

"Nice try."


	17. Shelter

**Author's Note: **::ducks behind table; shields self from flying rotten tomatoes, and possibly really old, refrigerated macaroni and cheese:: Okay. I am soooooo sorry, guys. I bet you all abjectly loathe me right now, and I totally understand - I loathe me, too for taking so long to update. And I understand if you never forgive me....

PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!! PLEEEEEEAAAAAASE FORGIVE ME!!!!!!!

Ahem. Okay. That's over. So, apparently college is really time consuming. Who'd'a thunk it? But I have a little, tiny confession to make as to why this took so long: this chapter has been finished for somewhere in the neighborhood of ten months. But after a while I sort of got that overdue library book fear - you know, where it's just getting worse and worse, but you just _can't_ return it, because it's _soooo_ late...? Yeah. So, I think maybe I should just shut up and go on to thanking people.

Mille grazie to **.Roses, live4ever, erised-i **(twice!)**, Twilighter, Mandi1, Belle07, Your Vennela, doing 25 life in azkaban, ObsessedwithTwilight, Mirane, AneleTiger, orlibluver, Holli7555, lavanja loves muse, Lon-Dubh **(three times!)**, GLIMMERGIRL1271, DOEeyes, starlighttwilight KlutzLike Bella, yasioasasi, simplyme88, The RaVen 303 **(_also _three times haha! )**, killersmile **(three times!)**, annahelenamccrea, LovingEverythingIShouldn't, Ame Warashi, SKIDDY, dance2live, twilightguitargirl, MissMei92, Luckygrl27 **(twice!)**, Lady Eowyn of Ithilien **(twice!)**, stupidvampires101, moonlightshade, deep in the high, MusicIsEverything **(twice!)**, Bella, beccaj-ilh **(three times! ... I'm feeling like a really bad person right about now)**, Nerd314, hahajetzudjivnnn, ~April~, -insert random comment here-, Beth **(twice!)**, HermioneRon 4ever **(twice!)**, Carlisle060 **(that's right! We had a review from CARLISLE! haha)**, twilightlover, sapphireseanymph, xxtwilight, librarymom **(twice! I'm sensing a pattern....)**, oneiropulos, , StargazingLily, OperationDuctTape, Lizet M, the viEns of hIStorY, FredandGeorgeWeasleyareMYKings **(twice!)**, o..l-dish, Sporkface, Live4YourXDreams, PlayFair, iloveedwardandjacob, Ginaaaa, Ema Coleen, kiwi27, Broken M a n n e q u i n, Animangel, theothercullen427, Rebecca101, spazzyjj27, tasha, on absinthe, deathpenity17, lisab34, JocelynA, cullenist1918, **and **Amileah** for reviewing! I also seem to remember that **..Jasper **and **xoxoBloodRedRosesoxox **reviewed, but I can't seem to find their reviews! Wow! There are a lot of you who could potentially really hate me right now. I hope you don't. :'-( And I hope that I didn't miss anybody! If I did, please let me know and I will amend my mistake. :-) One other thing: I wanted to get this story up tonight (or this morning, now), so I'll be sending my responses to all of your lovely reviews after I post this. Responses to anonymous reviews, however, are below.

**GLIMMERGIRL1271 - **Really? Your favorite story? That's so flattering! Thank you! I'm so terribly sorry it's been so long since I updated.

**starlighttwilight - **Oh dear! You're probably really cursing me now! But don't worry - I really don't think the end of this next chapter is a cliffhanger, so you can breathe easily. Ah, yes. The nonexistent note. I'm glad those scary days are over! ::knock on wood!:: For a while there, I thought I was going to lose my entire story!

**dance2live - **Thank you! I'm sorry it's taken me so long!

**Bella - **Thank you so much for your lovely compliments! They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. :-) I felt awful having Esme's mother react like that, since I know I would be horrified if my mother not only didn't believe me, but _blamed_ me for something like that, but I agree with you that it was necessary. I hope you're still excited to read the rest of the story!

**~April~ - **Thank you! Stephenie Meyer? Wow! Thank you! How did you enjoy Breaking Dawn? I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update! I hope you're still checking for updates!

**Beth (review #1) - **Teehee we can get a lynching group together for Charles, I think. :-) Don't worry - Esme will see Carlisle soon enough! Haha that sentence is probably growing very old in the ears of everyone, but she will! Oh, my! Three times? May I ask at what parts? I'm very happy I made you clap your hands and laugh with joy! I hope you like the next chapter!

**Beth (review #2 a.k.a. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN????!! haha) - **I'M SORRY!!!! In answer to your question, though, I've been in college. Boo. I know how miserable it is to wait and wait (and wait and wait) for an update, and have one never come, so I'm doubly sorry that I've been forever about this chapter! I'm pretty much the least cool person in the world, aren't I? ... Maybe you shouldn't answer that. No, go ahead. Answer it, actually. It's good to have those kinds of things right out on the table. ANYWAY! I've finally updated, and I reeeally hope you think it's worth the wait!

**twilightlover - **I'm sorry I've kept you waiting for so long!

**kiwi27 - **Thank you for reviewing! I'm sorry you've been waiting for so long, but I'm finally updating! ::evil laugh:: Just to be completely evil, I've PURPOSEFULLY kept everyone waiting this long because it's a cliffhanger!! ::another evil laugh:: Okay, so that's not true, it was a total accident, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!

**tasha - **Haha it's so sad that I haven't updated in so long that people think I never will again, but I am (finally) updating! Thank you for being honest - I know that the story's taking a while to unfold, but the cliff part is coming up soon! (Soon in terms of chapters, of course, not in how long it's going to take my fricking self to write them ha) Wow! You really like Carlisle? Thank you! I was just looking over that part with him and I was questioning if it's at all in character, so I'm really glad to have an opinion on it!

Okay, so it's **prize time**! **Beth **gets a hug from Esme; **HermioneRon 4ever** receives a recording of Edward singing her favorite song; and **Mandi1 **gets a new squeal muffler, because the first one is probably worn out by now! And as for the rest of you... I've made you all wait for so long it had better be good, so... **you** **all** get an all expenses paid weekend getaway on Esme's island with the Cullen of your choice!! **Also: **a pan of Timmy's Magic Cookie Bars to whomever can spot the Music Man reference in here, and finally, keep your eyes peeled for a tiny cameo in here....

**Disclaimer: **Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn, Esme Evenson, and Charles Evenson, all belong to Stephenie Meyer, who rules the earth and all who live on it. Franklin Platt, Montgomery and Millicent Gillis, the store clerk, and Margaret Bennington belong to me. :-)

Okay, enough dilly-dallying, for Pete's sake! Yes. Dilly. Dallying. On with the story!

**Chapter 17. Shelter**

"Turn slowly."

I was still frozen in place, but all of my fear had left me the moment I identified the voice.

"Uncle Franklin," I whispered.

I heard an intake of breath and the rifle being disarmed.

"Esme?"

I turned around to see my Uncle's pale, astonished face. We regarded each other silently for a few moments. I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I smiled and said, "Good evening."

"Good eve- Esme!" he sputtered. "What in the name of all that is holy are you _doing_ here?!"

"I-" this part proved more difficult. How could I explain to him why I was here?

He slowly lowered the rifle, looking at me with a wrinkled brow. He reached out a hand and brushed my cheek. I winced. A great sadness crossed my uncle's face.

"Did someone do this to you?"

I looked at my bare, muddy feet.

Uncle Franklin stepped forward suddenly and enveloped me in his arms.

"You poor child," he whispered, stroking my hair.

"Please," I murmured into his vest. "Please don't tell anyone. I can't stay here."

"Why did you stay so long? Why are you going now?"

I pulled away, brushing a hand impatiently over my wet eyes, and stumbled over my words. "I... I can't let him to do a child... what he's done to me."

He considered me for a moment, then turned and headed for the cluttered bookshelf.

"Please, you won't say anything, will you? No one knows... about the baby."

He didn't answer. My eyes seemed to take in everything around me while waiting for him. I payed attention to every grain of wood, every nail in the wall. shifting my weight from one foot to another anxiously. A chilly breeze shifted through the barn, and I shivered and hugged myself, watching Uncle Franklin rustle around on the shelves.

After a few moments of my watching the patterns made on his vest by the flickering light and shadows, Uncle Franklin turned back and walked up to me.

I looked into his blue eyes, perspiring despite the temperature.

Slowly, so slowly, he reached out and took my hand. I looked down at our hands as he gently pressed something cold and hard in the palm of my hand and closed my fingers around it. My eyebrows came together in confusion. I opened my fingers.

A small metal key lay there. I looked up, astonished.

"Frank said that you knew how to drive it."

My mouth gaped open. He leaned in and pressed his whiskery face against my cheek, kissing me. Tears started in my eyes again. When he pulled away, I saw that his eyes were shining as well.

"I will have missed seeing your child grow."

"I-" instead of words, a sob fell out.

Uncle Franklin cleared his throat. "Now, you climb in, I'll get you started up."

Unable to find the words to protest, I pulled the door towards me and slid onto the cold seat, clenching my hands around the steering wheel. Uncle Franklin was gesturing something to me through the windshield. I stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before I started and reached out and pulled the choke. I nodded at him and he bent down, turning the crankshaft.

The car started with a roar, and in a moment Uncle Franklin was outside my window. I rolled it down.

"Now, there's a map inside the glove compartment," he told me. "It's for all of Ohio... perhaps you would like to head northwest?"

I leaned over and pulled a folded map out of the glove compartment. I smoothed it out slightly and set it on the seat next to me. I turned back around to face Uncle Franklin, managing a wavering smile. He reached in and took my hand.

"If you can, let me know, every once in a while... how you're doing."

"Yes, I will, I promise," I said through tears, bringing his hand to my lips and kissing it.

He smiled and freed his hand gently, stroking the side of my head. Then he turned and opened the barn doors wide.

I closed my eyes and recalled the day that Frank had taught me how to drive. I tentatively reached out my foot and pressed the pedal in the middle. The car lurched backwards. I let up immediately, automatically stepping on the pedal on the right. I jerked to a stop.

I looked up. Uncle Franklin was watching me, eyes wide. I smiled feebly and reached for the throttle with one hand, my other tight on the wheel. I gently stepped on the left pedal.

I slowly crept forward along the floor until I pulled up alongside my uncle.

He cleared his throat. "You, er, _will_ be careful, won't you?"

To my surprise, the corners of my mouth twitched. "I will, I promise," I repeated.

He stepped aside, and I drove past him.

The car continued slowly forward, and I directed it carefully. It's a wonder that I didn't crash it into anything before I cleared Uncle Franklin's yard, because I wasn't really watching the path in front of me.

I was watching him. I watched him standing in the doorway, bathed in the light, until the darkness swallowed the two of us, and he was out of sight.

* * *

I drove all through the night, my adrenaline keeping me wide awake. For the first twenty miles or so, my mind was swimming with everything going through it. It wasn't until I felt the first few cold drops of water that I realized that my window was still open, and that it was beginning to rain. I panicked, fumbling with various controls until I figured out how to turn on the windshield wipers. The rain picked up, or maybe it was my speed, for the wind was whipping my face, and the raindrops stung my cheeks.

And suddenly I realized: I felt alive. I was alive again for the first time in so long.

A smile slowly unfolded across my face. Then, inexplicably, I was laughing. I threw my head back against the seat and laughed and yelled and cried.

And I was happy. I was so happy.

* * *

The light crept over the horizon, making me squint. I blinked and my eyes remained closed.

I hit a bump. I gasped and awoke. I was driving alongside a wheat field, and I was starting to drive off the road. I stopped the car and looked around.

There was nothing but wheat for as far as I could see, stained red by the rising sun. And I was falling asleep.

After a moment of indecision, I pulled the car carefully into the field, and then turned off the engine.

I lay down across the seat, pushing the map onto the floor. A breeze was flowing in through the window, caressing my face, carrying the sound of spring peepers on its back. I sighed, and I was asleep.

An hour, or perhaps a day later, I was awoken by a sharp rapping on the windshield. My eyes snapped open.

"Excuse me."

A chubby man stood outside the car, looking rather irate.

I sat up, fighting off a bout of dizziness. I leaned out the window.

"This... this is _your_ field, isn't it?" I asked quietly.

"_Yup_," he drawled.

"I'm so, so sorr-" I broke off, clutching my head.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, suddenly sounding concerned.

"Please, sir," I breathed, "I'm going to have a baby." I leaned my head on the steering wheel.

The front door opened. The man put a hand on my shoulder.

"It's all right, hon, come with me."

My head was too thick with nausea to think why I should argue, so I climbed out and leaned against the side of the car.

The man held out his arm and I clutched it.

"My truck's over here," he said soothingly. "We've got three kids, so my wife knows all about this. She'll be able to take care of you."

"Thank you, sir," I whispered.

I felt myself being lifted into a car seat, and I felt the car begin to move. I could no longer see to know where we were going, but I didn't care.

Before I knew it, I was being pulled out of the car and along the grass. I stumbled up a few stairs and heard a door open.

"Oh, my goodness!" A woman's shocked voice cut through the buzzing in my ears.

"You better take her upstairs, Millicent, she's in bad shape."

Another pair of hands took hold of me.

"Is she conscious?" Millicent asked.

I made a sound deep in my throat.

"You're all right, dearie, you're safe," she said as she guided me along the floor.

"She'll get you fixed right up, hon," said her husband.

My stomach lurched, and I was pulled forward. I clutched at the side of a metal basin.

My eyesight slowly came back and I breathed slowly and deeply.

I straightened up and looked around. I drank in the small kitchen I was in. It was tiny, but everything about it was cozy, from the scrubbed wooden table to the ancient stove in one corner. I took in the faces of the couple standing near me, and they almost seemed to blend in, as though they were a part of the house itself. They looked as though they were both in their fifties, with faces lined by both grief and happiness.

"Why don't we get you something to eat?" said Millicent.

I nodded. "Thank you very much," I croaked.

A few hours and several helpings of scrambled eggs and ham later, I was sitting at the kitchen table still, talking to Millicent as she made bread. She looked up at me once in a while to ask me a question, then returned to kneading the dough.

"Why did you decide to leave your home?"

I shifted uncomfortably. I felt terrible for lying to someone who had been so kind and sheltered me, but I felt that I was still too close to home to tell the truth. I took a sip of water to stall while I quickly invented an answer in my head.

"I... I just couldn't take it anymore... the emptiness of that house without him. It wasn't a home."

She nodded sympathetically. and fell silent temporarily.

I watched her strong hands work. I knew now that I was in Indiana, a few hours away from Fort Wayne, and I being hosted by Montgomery and Millicent Gillis. They, in turn, were under the impression that I was a war widow from Owensboro, Kentucky, and I was heading for River City, Iowa, where an aunt was waiting for me.

Mr. Gillis had left for the fields shortly after breakfast, so Millicent was the only one who had heard my entire story.

I drained my glass of water and glanced at the clock anxiously. Charles would know by now that I was gone. Would he just let me go, or would he search for me? I wracked my brain for any ideas I had left of where I could go. He would find me, I was sure. _He _couldn't_ know where you were headed because _you_ don't even know where you're headed,_ I tried to reason with myself.

The clock chimed loudly. I jumped. Millicent looked up at me.

"You look restless, Mrs. Bennington."

Oh yes, and I had also told them that my name was Margaret Bennington.

"It's nothing, just... I really need to be on my way. My aunt is expecting me," I lied.

She nodded. "If you must."

I felt another pang of guilt. I found myself liking Mrs. Gillis more and more, as much for her kindness as for her unobtrusiveness.

I stood up, smoothing out my dress.

"I wish there was something I could do to repay you for your kindness," I said, uttering perhaps the first truth since I had entered the house.

Millicent wiped her hands on her apron and took one of my hands in both of hers.

"Good luck to you, dearie. Everything is going to work out just fine for you."

I smiled. "Please give my best to Mr. Gillis," I said.

"I certainly will. Let me walk you to your truck."

She escorted me through her hallway and opened the front door. I saw that Montgomery had pulled the automobile out of the field and had parked it in front of the porch.

I opened the door, slid across the front seat, and pulled the choke. Then, I walked around to the front of the truck nervously. I had never started one of these myself. I reached down and took hold of the crank. I turned it vigorously, praying. I gasped when the motor caught and stuttered to life. I straightened up painfully, wiping my brow.

I smiled cheerfully at Millicent and climbed in behind the driver's seat.

"Now, you take care of yourself and your baby."

I nodded, "I will," I promised.

She stood back and waved as I put the truck in gear and started down the road. I rolled the window down and waved until I was swallowed in the waves of the field around me.

* * *

Days later, I sighed and wrinkled my brow at the map stretched out in front of me. I traced my finger along one line, and then consulted the key to try and translate what I was seeing. According to my map, I was neck-deep in Lake Michigan. I impatiently shoved the map onto the passenger seat and massaged my eyes. I had really thought that I had seen the worst misdirection when I wound up on the opposite side of the state - in Platteville, ironically enough - now I was in the city that I wanted, but I had been sitting on a street corner for the past half an hour and hadn't made any progress whatsoever.

I sighed in disgust again and threw my door open. Surely there _had_ to be one person in this city who knew where they were and how to get somewhere else.

Everywhere I looked, I was surrounded by buildings stretching into the sky. I turned on the spot a few times and finally decided on a small grocery store tucked in between two office buildings. Two men stepped out as I reached for the door. One man with auburn hair held the door for me and I lowered my eyes and brushed past his blonde friend.

"Can I help you?"

I stepped up to the counter where a young man waited.

Ten minutes later, I slipped back inside my truck, reciting the directions in my head.

"You follow 27th street, turn right on Grand Avenue, follow it to Prospect Avenue, then watch for the signs for Lake Drive... follow... 27th street...."

I followed my directions carefully, gathering a line of irritable traffic behind me as I crawled along the roads, veering suddenly on my turns. Fortunately, I had no one behind me as I drove up Lake Drive and saw what I was looking for. I slammed on the brakes and turned down a dirt path. I drove to the end of it, stopping abruptly in front of a yellow house with a brown roof. I shut off the engine and let the silence fall over me.

I was finally here. Yet I couldn't find the strength to get out of the truck. I had grown used to being more emotional lately, but I think that my eyes would have filled with tears even if I wasn't expecting.

The house was perfect. It was exactly the way I had imagined it, exactly the way it had been described. There was even a rocking chair on the porch, just as I had dreamed. I sat there, unable to move as I took in every tiny detail.

I don't know how long I stayed in my seat, but when I finally clambered out of the truck onto the path, I felt as though I were just waking after a nightmare, and the morning was more glorious than any I had known.

My legs felt like they were made of water as I walked up the front path and climbed the stairs. Courageously, I thought, I knocked on the door. I watched through the glass as a figure emerged from the hall and pulled open the door.

"Esme?!"

I smiled. "Hello, Margaret."

* * *

So what did you guys think? Was it worth the wait? Was it totally not worth the wait? And what did you guys think of Breaking Dawn???? And the movie?? Was Peter Facinelli good, or were you disappointed? Let me know!


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